Chapter 3

Peter Brodie stood very high in his profession. He had made his mark
as a detective, and had solved some very complicated problems. In
recalling him from Liverpool, whither he had been sent on important
business, the authorities felt that if the Corbie Hall mystery was to
be cleared up he was the man to do it. They saw from the first that it
was a very difficult case, when all the circumstances were considered,
but they were sure that Brodie was the one man likely to tackle it
successfully.

It seemed as if the evil reputation of Corbie Hall was never to pass
away, and after this new tragedy people recalled how Peter Crease,
the drunken owner of it, and uncle of Balfour, had broken his neck
in a quarry; how, following that, the gloomy house had fallen into
dilapidation, until it was shunned as a haunted place. When the
rightful heir turned up, they thought he would put things right; but
instead of that he proved himself to be as big a reprobate as his
relative had been: and now his mysterious disappearance, and Maggie
Stiven’s murder, realized the croakings of the wiseacres, who had said
that a curse hung over the house, and that anyone who went to live in
the Hall would come to grief.

Of course, the tradition that a favourite of Queen Mary’s who had once
lived there mysteriously disappeared, and was never heard of again, was
also recalled; and the sages predicted that as that mystery was never
cleared up, so would Balfour’s disappearance go down to posterity as an
unsolved mystery. Possibly it might have done if Peter Brodie had not
brought his intellect to bear upon it.

On the fourth day after his arrival the thaw had been so thorough that
the land was quite clear of snow, and a second search was made for
Balfour, but it only ended in failure, as the first had done.

Brodie was now convinced that the unfortunate man had never left the
house; and yet, having regard to the critical way in which it had been
examined from top to bottom, it was difficult to conceive where he
could be hidden. Nevertheless, Peter stuck to his guns; for as Balfour
had not gone out of the house, he must be in it, and if so, time and
patient search might reveal his hiding-place.

With a view to learning as much as possible about Balfour’s habits,
Brodie had a long talk with Chunda, Captain Jarvis acting as
interpreter. The native stated that he had travelled with his master
extensively through India. He had found him rather a peculiar man. He
was very secretive, and given to fits of moodiness. Although Chunda was
exceedingly fond of him, he did not wish to accompany him to Scotland,
but yielded on the master pressing him. Now he bitterly regretted
having come, for not only did he feel crushed by his master’s strange
disappearance, but the cold and dampness of the climate made him very
ill, and he intended to leave immediately for Southampton, so as to get
a ship for India, as he yearned to return to his own warm, sunny land.
He was dying for the want of sun and warmth.

Asked if his master was much given to flirtations, Chunda, with
flashing eyes and an angry expression in his dark face, said that he
was, and he had frequently got into trouble through it.

After this interview, Brodie came to the conclusion that the motive of
the crime was undoubtedly jealousy. That is to say, someone had been
jealous of Balfour, someone who considered Maggie a rival.

If this was correct, the someone must be a woman--no ordinary woman,
for no ordinary woman would have been capable of carrying out such a
terrible revenge. Besides Maggie Stiven, there had been four other
young women in the party.

One was a married woman named MacLauchlan. Her husband kept a grocer’s
shop in the High Street, but he and his wife didn’t get on well
together. He had no idea, however, that she was in the habit of
visiting at Corbie Hall.

Brodie dismissed her from suspicion. He felt sure she didn’t commit
the deed. She was rather good-looking, but a mild, lackadaisical,
phlegmatic, brainless creature, without the nerve necessary for such a
crime.

Another of the ladies was Jean Smith. She was twenty years of age, and
Maggie Stiven’s bosom friend, and since the night of the crime had been
seriously ill in bed from the shock.

A third was Mary Johnstone. Until New Year’s Eve she had never met
Balfour before in her life. She had gone to the Hall in company with
her sweetheart, James Macfarlane, the medical student.

The fourth was Kate Thomson, cousin to Rab Thomson. She was a
woman about thirty years of age, strong and well knit, but was a
good-tempered, genial sort of creature. She, too, was almost a stranger
to Balfour, and was engaged to be married to a man named Robert
Murchison, who was factor to a Mr. Rennie of Perth.

Brodie was absolutely certain, after studying them all, that not one of
these four women had done the deed. Nor was there the slightest reason
for harbouring a suspicion against the female servants.

He was, therefore, puzzled, but not disconcerted, and he stuck to his
theory that a jealous woman had committed the crime.

That, of course, only made the mystery more mysterious, so to speak.
For who was the woman? Where did she come from? How did she get into
the house? Where did she go to?

These questions were inevitable if the theory was maintained. It did
not seem easy then to answer them.

As Brodie revolved all these things in his mind, he remembered that,
though he had subjected the house to a very careful search, he had done
little more than look into Chunda’s room, the reason being that the
native was ill in bed at the time.

The room adjoined Balfour’s, and at one time was connected by a
communicating door, but for some reason or other the door had been
nailed up and papered over. While less in size than Balfour’s, it was
still a fairly large room, also wainscoted, and with a carved wooden
ceiling. It was lighted by one window, which commanded a good view over
Blackford Hill.

To this room Brodie went one evening when Chunda happened to be absent
from it. It reeked with the faint, sickly odour of some Indian perfume.

On a sideboard stood a small gilt Indian idol, and various Indian
knick-knacks were scattered about. As in Balfour’s room, there was a
massive carved oak mantelpiece, with a very capacious fireplace; and on
each side of the fireplace was a deep recess.

The floor was oak, polished, and dark in colour either by staining or
time. The only carpet on it was a square in the centre. A clothes-press
stood in a corner. It was the only place in which a man could be
concealed. Brodie opened the door, and found nothing but clothes there.
The mystery, therefore, was as far from solution as ever, apparently,
as now there wasn’t a corner of the house that had not been examined
thoroughly and exhaustively.

As Brodie was in the act of leaving the room, his eye was attracted by
something glittering on the hearthstone, where the cold, white ashes of
a wood-fire still remained. He stooped down and picked from the hearth
a scrap, a mere morsel of cloth. It was all burnt round the edges,
and was dusty with the ash; but he found on examination that it was a
fragment of Indian cloth, into which gold threads had been worked; and
it was these gold threads which, in spite of the dust, had reflected
the light and attracted his notice.

Taking out his pocket-book, he deposited that scrap of charred cloth
carefully between the leaves, then went down on his knees and subjected
the ashes to critical examination, with the result that he obtained
unmistakable evidence of a considerable amount of cloth having been
destroyed by fire. There were patches here and there of white, or
rather gray, carbonized, filmy fragments of cobweb-like texture. As
everyone knows, cloth burnt in a fire leaves a ghost-like wrack behind,
that, unless disturbed, will remain for some time.

Brodie rose and fell into deep thought, and he mentally asked himself
why the cloth had been burnt. It was reasonable to presume it was
some portion of clothing, and if so, why should anyone have been at
the trouble to consume it in the flames unless it was to hide certain
evidences of guilt.

‘What would those evidences of guilt be?’ Brodie muttered to himself,
as he reflected on the singular discovery he had made. And suddenly it
seemed to him--of course, it was purely fancy--that a voice whispered
in his ear:

‘Blood! blood!’

Although but fancy, the voice seemed so real to him that he fairly
started, and at that instant the door opened and Chunda entered.
He seemed greatly surprised to find the detective in the room, and
muttered something in Hindustani.

As Brodie did not understand him and could not converse with him, he
made no response, but passed out, and, hurrying to Edinburgh, called on
Professor Dunbar, the eminent microscopist, and asked that gentleman to
place the fragment of cloth found on the hearthstone under a powerful
microscope.

The Professor did as requested, and, after a careful examination, he
said he could not detect anything suggestive of blood. The cloth was
evidently of Indian workmanship, and the bright threads running through
it were real gold.

Brodie did not return to Corbie Hall until the following day. By that
time Maggie Stiven’s body had been removed by her friends for burial,
and he was informed by the servants that Chunda had gone out to attend
the funeral. He was rather surprised at that, and still more surprised
when he found, on going to Chunda’s room, that the door was locked.

He hurried back to Edinburgh, and was in time to be present at Maggie’s
burial in the Greyfriars Churchyard, but he saw nothing of Chunda;
the native was not there, and nobody had seen him. Captain Jarvis was
amongst the mourners, and when the funeral was over he and Brodie left
together.

‘Do you know how long Chunda has been in Balfour’s service?’ the
detective asked, as they strolled along.

‘I believe a considerable time, but I don’t know from absolute
knowledge. As I have already told you, Balfour was a curious sort of
fellow, and particularly close in regard to his own affairs. He was one
of those sort of men it is difficult to get to the bottom of. You may
try to probe them as much as you like, but nothing comes of it.’

‘You possibly were as familiar with him as anyone,’ suggested Brodie.

‘Yes, I should say I was.’

‘And if he had wanted a confidant, he would probably have chosen you?’

‘I think it is very likely he would. So far as such a man would make a
confidant of anyone, he made one of me.’

‘Do you know why he brought Chunda from India with him?’

‘No. What I do know is this: Chunda had been with him for some time,
and when Balfour returned to Scotland, he thought he was only going to
make a temporary stay here.’

‘Was he fond of Chunda?’

‘I cannot tell you whether he was or was not.’

‘Can you tell me this: Has Chunda been in the habit of always wearing
European clothes since he came to Edinburgh?’

‘I don’t know that. You see, I only came into port with my vessel four
weeks ago. When I first called at Corbie Hall, the fellow was wearing
European clothes.’

‘Did you see much of Chunda on New Year’s Eve?’

‘He came into the room now and again. In fact, I think he was in and
out pretty often. Balfour used occasionally to smoke an opium pipe, and
Chunda always filled it for him.’

‘How was the native dressed that night?’

‘He had trousers and vest, and wore a sort of fancy Indian jacket.’

‘Was there gold embroidery on it?’

‘I believe there was a sort of gold thread, or something of that kind.
But, really, I didn’t take much notice. We were all pretty jolly, and I
didn’t look to see how anyone was dressed.’

‘But, still, you have no doubt that Chunda did wear a jacket or robe
similar to that you describe?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure about that part of the business. It was conspicuous
enough.’

When Brodie parted from the skipper, he felt that he had struck a
trail, although he could not make much of it just then. But it will
readily be gathered that he had begun to suspect Chunda of having
committed the crime.

It was difficult to understand why Chunda should have burnt his gown or
jacket unless it was to destroy traces of guilt. If there was blood on
his jacket, and it was the blood of one of the victims, he would know
that it might prove a ghastly piece of evidence if detected; and so he
had committed it to the flames as the most effectual means of getting
rid of it.

Now, assuming this surmise of Brodie’s was correct, it was obvious
that it was not Maggie Stiven’s blood, because the nature of the wound
that brought about her death was such that there was only very little
outward bleeding. But if Balfour, when he went upstairs to ascertain
the cause of the scream, was suddenly attacked and stabbed to death by
the native, was it not reasonable to suppose that he bled so profusely
as to dye the garments of his murderer?

This chain of reasoning threw a new light on the affair, and Brodie,
who had made up his mind that he would read the riddle if it could
be read, returned once more to Corbie Hall. He learnt that Chunda
had been back about half an hour, and had given the other servants
to understand that he was ill and half frozen, and was going to bed.
Whereupon the detective furnished himself with a lamp, and proceeded
to carefully examine the stair carpet and the landings for suggestive
stains, but saw nothing that aroused his suspicions. As he could not
talk to Chunda, he did not disturb him, but the next morning, quite
early, he went down to the Hall again in company with Jarvis.

Chunda told the skipper, in answer to questions put to him, that he
had not gone out on the previous day to attend the funeral, as stated,
but to make arrangements for taking his departure from the country.
He could not endure the climate; it made him very ill. Besides that,
he felt that he would go mad if he stayed there, for there wasn’t a
soul he could talk to, and his loneliness was terrible. He therefore
intended to start on the following day for Southampton, and two days
later would sail in a P. and O. steamer for India.

All that he had said seemed very feasible, and that he was ill and did
suffer from the cold was evident.

Nevertheless, Brodie’s suspicions were not allayed. It was not easy
to allay them when once they were thoroughly aroused; and having
reasoned the case out from every possible point of view, he had come
to the conclusion that Chunda was in a position to let in light where
there was now darkness if he chose to speak. That is to say, he knew
something of the crime, though, of course, at this stage there wasn’t
a scrap of evidence against the native that would have justified
his arrest. Moreover, Brodie found himself confronted with a huge
difficulty in the way of making his theory fit in. If Chunda had really
murdered Balfour, how had he managed to dispose of the body? That
question was certainly a poser, and no reasonable answer could be given
to it.

It must not be forgotten that, from the moment of the scream being
first heard to the discovery of Maggie Stiven’s body on the mat at the
foot of the stairs, not more than half an hour at the outside had
elapsed. In that brief space of time Balfour had been so effectually
got rid of that there was not a trace of him. It was bewildering to try
and understand how that disappearance had been accomplished, unless it
was with the aid of some devilish art and unholy magic. But as Brodie
had no belief in that kind of thing, he was convinced that, sooner or
later, what was then an impenetrable mystery would be explained by
perfectly rational, though probably startling, causes. Be that as it
might, having got his fangs fixed, to use a figure of speech, he held
on with bulldog tenacity, and he was not disposed to exonerate Chunda
until he felt convinced that his suspicions were unfounded.

‘Do you know, captain, if there are any balls of any kind in the
house?’ he asked abruptly of Jarvis, who looked at him with some
astonishment, for the question seemed so irrelevant and out of place.

‘What sort of balls?’ said Jarvis, expressing his surprise by his
manner and voice.

‘Oh, any sort--billiard-balls, golf-balls, balls of any kind.’

‘There are plenty of golf-balls. But why do you ask?’

‘I want you to get two or three of the balls,’ said Brodie for answer.
‘Put them into your pocket, ask Chunda to accompany you into the
dining-room, and make him sit down in a chair opposite to you. Engage
him in conversation for a few minutes; then, suddenly taking the balls
from your pocket, tell him to catch them, and pitch them to him. Do you
understand me?’

Captain Jarvis stared at the detective as though he could hardly
believe the evidence of his ears. Then, as he broke into a laugh, he
asked:

‘Do you mean that seriously?’

‘Of course I mean it.’

‘And what’s the object?’

‘Never mind the object. Do what I ask you.’

‘And where will you be?’

‘In the dining-room, too. But take no notice whatever of me.’

‘Well, it’s a daft-like sort of proceeding, any way; but I’ll do it.’

Then, having procured some golf-balls, he addressed himself to Chunda
in Hindustani, and in a few moments they went together into the
dining-room.

Brodie followed shortly after, and, taking a book from a little shelf
that hung on the wall, he threw himself on to a lounge and appeared to
be reading.

In a short while Jarvis took the balls from his pocket, and, saying
something to Chunda, who sat on a chair by the window, he threw one
ball after another at him, and the native held forth his hands to catch
them; but, not being in a playful humour, he did not cast the balls
back, but very soon got up and went out, looking very much annoyed.

‘Well, what does that tomfoolery mean?’ asked Jarvis.

‘A good deal to me. I’ve learnt a startling fact by it.’

The skipper would have been glad to have had an explanation, for
naturally his curiosity was greatly aroused, and he couldn’t conceive
what the ball-throwing could possibly have indicated. But Brodie
resolutely refused to satisfy him.

‘You have rendered me a service,’ he said. ‘Now, that’s enough for
the present. If I succeed in fitting the pieces of this strange
puzzle together, you shall know what my motive was. Rest assured I do
nothing without a motive. But I am going to exact a further service
from you now. I want you to stay here all night, as I myself intend to
stay. Chunda talked of leaving to-morrow. He must not leave, and, if
necessary, you must find some means of detaining him.’

‘Do you mean to say you suspect Chunda of having committed the
crime?’--his amazement growing.

‘Frankly, I do.’

‘Well, all I’ve got to say, Brodie, is this,’ answered the skipper
decisively: ‘you are on the wrong tack.’

‘How do you know I am?’

‘I am sure of it.’

‘Give me your reasons for being sure.’

‘Why, I tell you, man,’ exclaimed the skipper warmly, ‘the nigger is as
harmless as a kitten, and no more likely to commit a crime of this kind
than a new-born baby.’

‘That is simply your opinion, Captain Jarvis.’

‘It is my opinion, and it’s a common-sense one. You are doing the
fellow a wrong. I never saw a native servant so attached to Balfour
as Chunda was to his master. I tell you, Brodie, you are on the wrong
scent.’

‘All right, we shall see,’ he said carelessly.

‘But in the name of common-sense,’ cried Jarvis, who was
argumentatively inclined, ‘if there’s any reason in your suspicions,
how on earth do you suppose this nigger chap got rid of Balfour? Where
has he stowed him, do you think? Do you suppose he swallowed him?’

‘Ah! an answer to that question is not easily framed. Perhaps before
many hours have passed I may be able to tell you.’

‘Do you think because he’s black he’s the devil, and has spirited
Balfour away?’ pursued the skipper, with a defiant air, for he honestly
considered that Chunda was being wronged, and he was ready to champion
him.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ answered Brodie, with a smile, ‘because if he
had been the devil he wouldn’t have committed such a clumsy crime as
this.’

‘Well, clumsy as it is, it’s defied you,’ said Jarvis, by no means
satisfied or convinced.

‘For the time being it has. But it won’t continue to do so much longer,
unless I’m very much mistaken. But it’s no use continuing the argument.
A man is judged by his acts, not by his words. If I am wrong, I must
abide by the penalty which attaches to failure. If I am right, I shall
take credit for some amount of cleverness. You will stay here to-night,
won’t you?’

The skipper scratched his head, and looked as though he wasn’t
comfortable.

‘Well, upon my word! I don’t know what to say. I’m not a coward, but
I’m blowed if I like the idea of passing another night in this uncanny
place.’

‘Why?’ Brodie asked with a smile.

‘I should be afraid of seeing Maggie Stiven’s ghost.’

‘And what if you did? A ghost couldn’t do you any harm.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’d rather not see one.’

‘Nor are you likely to, except as a product of your own heated
imagination. However, to cut the matter short, you’ll stay, won’t you?
You’ve got your pipe and tobacco, and I’ve no doubt the cook will be
able to provide us with some creature comforts. We’ll have another log
put on the fire, and make ourselves comfortable; and, if you like, I’ll
give you a hand at cribbage.’

The skipper yielded, and the matter was settled.

‘Before we settle down, I want you to entertain Chunda here for half an
hour during my absence,’ continued Brodie.

‘You are not going out, are you?’ asked Jarvis quickly, and with some
nervousness displaying itself in his manner, indicating evidently that
he did not wish to be left alone.

‘Well, no, not out of the house. But you understand, Captain Jarvis,
I am doing my best to unravel this mystery; you must let me act in my
own way, and take such steps as I think are necessary to the end I have
in view. You can aid me, and I want you to aid me; but you can best do
that by refraining from questioning, and in doing exactly as I request
you to do.’

‘All right,’ said Jarvis. ‘I’ve nothing more to say. You must sail your
own ship, whether you come to grief or whether you don’t.’

‘Precisely. Now, I’ll send one of the servants up for Chunda, and
you’ll keep him engaged in talk for half an hour, or until I come back
into the room. Don’t talk about the crime, and don’t say a word that
would lead him to think I suspect him. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘And will carry out my wishes? It is most important that you should.’

‘To the letter.’

The business being thus arranged, Brodie left the room, and ten minutes
later Chunda entered it. Brodie was absent nearly three-quarters of
an hour before he returned. There was a look of peculiar satisfaction
on his face. Chunda was dismissed; and the two men, having, through
the cook, secured something in the way of eatables and drinkables,
satisfied their wants in that respect, and then engaged in cribbage,
and continued their game until a late hour.

At last Jarvis retired. It was arranged he was to sleep in Balfour’s
bedroom, but Brodie said he would stow himself on a couch in the
dining-room, which was warm and comfortable.

He dozed for three or four hours, and exactly at five rose, and made
his way to the stable-yard, where, according to prearrangement, the
groom was ready with a horse and trap, and Brodie drove rapidly into
Edinburgh. He was back again soon after eight, with two constables in
plain clothes, who were for the time confined to the kitchen, until
their services might be required.

Jarvis did not rise until after nine. He was a good and sound sleeper,
and neither ghosts nor anything else had disturbed him. He was kept in
ignorance of Brodie’s journey into Edinburgh.

A few minutes before ten Chunda made his appearance. He was ready to
start, and he enlisted the aid of the other servants to bring his
luggage down into the hall. Again Brodie requested the skipper to
detain the native in conversation, while he himself went upstairs to
Chunda’s room, where he shut himself in and locked the door. Then he
began to tap with his knuckles the wainscoted walls, going from panel
to panel.

When he reached the deep recess near the fireplace, already described,
he started, as his taps produced a hollow sound. He tapped again and
again, putting his ear to the woodwork. There was no mistake about it.
The wall there was hollow. He tried to move the hollow panel, but only
after many trials and much examination did he succeed. The panel slid
on one side, revealing a dark abyss, from which came a strange, cold,
earthy, clammy smell.

He closed the panel, went downstairs, and told the constables the time
for action had come. They filed into the dining-room, and Jarvis was
asked to tell Chunda that he would be arrested on a charge of having
murdered Raymond Balfour and Maggie Stiven.

If it is possible for a black person to turn pale, then Chunda did
so. Any way, the announcement was like an electric shock to him. He
staggered; then clapped his hands to his face, and moaned and whined.

Brodie went upstairs once more--this time in company with one of the
constables. They were provided with lanterns, and when the panel in
Chunda’s room was opened again, the light revealed a narrow flight of
stone steps descending between the walls; and at the bottom of the
steps lay something huddled up. It was unmistakably a human body, the
body of Raymond Balfour.

Chunda was at once conveyed to Edinburgh, and other men were sent out
from the town to the house. Then the decomposed body was got up. It was
Balfour, sure enough. He had been stabbed in the chest, and the heart
had been pierced through.

At the bottom of the stone steps there was also found the other portion
of the long stiletto.

All this, however, was not proof that Chunda had done the deed. But
there was something else that was.

The dead man’s right hand was tightly clenched, and when it was opened
by the doctor who was called in to examine the remains, a piece of
cloth was released from the death grip. It was a piece of Indian cloth,
interwoven with gold threads, and identical with the scrap that Brodie
had found in the ashes.

The dead hand afforded the necessary clue; it forged the last link. The
dead hand smote the destroyer. It proved beyond doubt that Chunda was
the murderer. He had by some means discovered the secret panel. He had
inveigled Balfour into the room. There he had stabbed him. In his dying
agony the wretched man had clutched at his murderer, and had torn
out a piece of the gold-threaded jacket he was wearing. That jacket
must have been deeply stained with blood, and Chunda had cast it upon
the fire. But murder will out, and the unconsumed fragment gave the
sharp-eyed Brodie the FIRST clue. The dead hand itself of the murdered
man afforded the LAST.

Chunda was the murderer, or, rather, the murderess; for Chunda was a
woman. Brodie had begun to suspect this from a peculiarity of voice,
from the formation of her neck and shoulders, and from other signs, and
his suspicions were confirmed when he resorted to the ball test.

When the balls were thrown, Chunda did not, as a man would have done,
close his knees, but spread them open. A woman invariably does this
when she is in a sitting posture and anything is thrown at her lap.

Chunda subsequently proved to be a woman, sure enough, and the murder
was the result--as Brodie had also correctly divined--of jealousy.

The wretched creature succeeded in strangling herself before she was
brought to trial, and she left behind her a paper written in excellent
English, in which she confessed the crime. She declared that she was
the wife of Balfour, who had espoused her in India. She represented a
very old and high-caste family. Her father was a Rajah, and Balfour had
been in his employ. He succeeded in winning her affections, and when he
returned to his own country she determined to accompany him. He treated
her very badly, and twice he attempted to poison her. His flirtation
with Maggie Stiven excited her to madness, but it was, nevertheless,
a very cunning madness. She had previously discovered by chance the
sliding panel and the secret stairs.

On New Year’s Eve she opened the panel, went to the top of the stairs,
and uttered that eerie screech or scream that had so alarmed the
company. She felt sure it would bring her husband to her. She told
him that she had received a horrible fright in her room; that part
of the wall had opened, revealing a dark abyss, from which strange
noises issued. As soon as he was in the room she stabbed him with a
long Indian stiletto. It then suddenly struck her that, when he didn’t
return, it was very likely Maggie Stiven would go in search of him. So
she hurried down the stairs and hid underneath them, and as soon as
Maggie appeared she sprang upon her and stabbed her with such fury that
the blade of the dagger broke.

Although her husband had treated her so badly, she had yielded to his
earnest entreaties to conceal her identity and continue to pass as a
man. She spoke and wrote English fluently, although he had made her
promise not to let this fact be known.

Such was the story she told, and there was no doubt it was
substantially correct. She considered that she had managed the crime
so well that suspicion would never rest upon her, and, having carried
out her deed of awful vengeance, she would be able to return to her own
sun-scorched land.

That she would have succeeded in this was likely enough had Peter
Brodie not been brought upon the scene. He had worked out the problem
line by line, and at last, when it struck him that if Balfour was
murdered he must have been murdered in Chunda’s room, he proceeded to
examine the floor carefully on the night when he asked Jarvis to keep
Chunda in conversation for half an hour. That examination revealed
unmistakable traces of blood on the boards. Then it occurred to him
that, as the house was an old one, it was more than likely there was
some secret closet or recess in which the body had been hidden.

Chunda had evidently been well educated. In a postscript to her
confession she said that, out of the great love she bore the man who
had so cruelly deceived her, she had, at his suggestion, consented to
pass herself off as his servant. He had assured her that it would only
be for a short time, and that when he had his affairs settled, and sold
his property, he would go back with her to India, and they would live
in regal splendour to the end of their days.

That she loved him was pretty certain. That he shamefully deceived
her was no less certain; and that love of hers, and that deception,
afforded some palliation for her bloodthirsty deed of vengeance.

For some time after the double crime Corbie Hall remained desolate
and lonely. It was now looked upon as a doubly-accursed place, and
nobody could be found who would take it, so at last it was razed to the
ground, and is known no more.

In pulling it down it was discovered that in Balfour’s room was a
secret panel corresponding to the one in the next room, and that the
stone stairs had at one time led to a subterraneous passage, which had
an opening somewhere in Blackford Glen. It had no doubt originally been
constructed to afford the inmates of the house means of escape in the
stormy times when the building was first reared.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This name is a fictitious one, for obvious reasons, but the
incidents related in the story are well authenticated.

[B] This was quite true. The contingency of war was even less remote
than the Prince’s words suggested. As a matter of fact, it is now
well known that the treaty had been formed between Russia and another
country against Turkey, and had Turkey become aware of it, there is
little doubt she would have flown at Russia’s throat, with results
less disastrous to herself than those which befell her at a later
period, when the legions of Russia crossed the Pruth, and commenced
that sanguinary struggle which entailed such enormous loss of life,
the expenditure of thousands of millions of money, and human agony and
suffering beyond the power of words to describe.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.