CHAPTER VIII

_The Judge States His Fourth Case_

"And do you seriously mean to put forward a plea to the effect that the penal code should not hang such a foul murderer as Walter Seale?" asked the judge, when the waiter had finished his story.

"Pardon me, but it is very exhausting to be constantly bringing your lordship back to the point at issue," returned the waiter, coughing to clear his throat. "It would not be impossible to argue against the judgment of death even in Seale's case. But the issue before us in this instance is not what you suggest."

"What is the issue, my friend?" asked the judge, condescendingly and with a rare and sardonic smile.

"If you recollect, it is perfectly simple. You gave the case of Nathaniel Gore to prove that the death penalty acted as a deterrent."

"Well?"

"Really, you make me tired. The real reason there has not been any further attempt to steal diamonds brought from abroad by ships is that the people who send the diamonds, and the people who receive them, have adopted new methods of transit; or, if they still send them by that line of ships, they have so many guards and take so many precautions that a thief stands no chance at all. I include all precious stones--from Burma, India, South Africa. Recently a consignment of gems came to England by airplane. Well, well, what does it matter? Gem thieves are only human. That is why there are no more big thefts on board ship. And yet that is not the issue between us in these two stories of Gore and Seale."

"Well?" asked the judge again, this time a little heavily.

"The plain issue is whether the penal code stops murder by being a deterrent. My answer is this: You sentenced Nathaniel Gore to be hanged. The news was told by newspaper, by wireless broadcast; in fact, everybody knew it. You yourself remarked on the public, and feminine, interest in his case. Very well. Do you realize that the murder that Walter Seale committed _was committed the very next day_? Seale knew of the verdict in Gore's case. Did that deter him? And that is my answer to your plea. So I claim another two points."

He added two more glasses to his list before the astonished eyes of the judge.

"I am sorry your lordship hasn't put up a better defense," he smiled. "Really, you know, for a judge of your lordship's eminence your lack of observation is deplorable. You went on your holiday after sentencing Gore. Do you never read the newspapers? Do you never read the minutes of your own intellectual club? Really! Really!"

The judge flushed under the sneering taunt. He could have sentenced the waiter there and then to life imprisonment!

"It is useless for me to combat your decision," he grumbled, resolved not to show any anger or disappointment at the ending of the cases, though he was terribly grieved that he had not been allowed one point. "What is the use of discussing legal matters with you when you have the result already decided? But let us waive that"--for an ugly look came into the waiter's eyes--"and allow me to say that I am not so deficient in observation as you suppose."

"No?"

"You stated that Walter Seale knew of the verdict in the case of Nathaniel Gore. It would be interesting to have proof of that assertion."

"I can give you proof."

"Indeed? Incontrovertible proof?"

"Absolutely."

"Let me hear it."

"I myself handed the morning newspaper to Walter Seale and pointed the verdict out to him."

"You?" The judge half rose from his chair.

"Then you are----"

"Adam Jelks!" bowed the waiter.

"Good God!" exclaimed the judge, sinking back into his chair.

"Merely one of my aliases."

The phrase sounded reminiscent in the judge's ears.

"You said the words when you claimed to be Lorry Black," he murmured in a dazed way. "Lorry Black! Adam Jelks! Which is your real name, may I ask?"

"Neither is my real name."

"But the police records----"

"Bear a third alias, the first name by which they knew me. You see, I am frank."

"Disastrously so. What, then, is your real name?"

"Gently! Gently! Why press for it?"

"I am curious."

"All in good time."

Once more the sound of music and singing broke on their ears. Another band of Christmas waits were in the street. They were obviously trained singers and players, and the words of their carol came melodiously out of the night:

"_Peace on earth, good will to men._"

In spite of themselves both the judge and the waiter listened to the soft, sweet strain. Gradually the music died down, the waits moved on to another street, but they could be heard singing faintly in the distance. In time the waits moved out of hearing. There was not a sound in the large room. The candles had burned more than half their length to their bases, and the light from them, added to the ruddy flare of the fire in the grate, cast a queer illumination on the figures of the sleeping members.

The waiter shrugged his shoulders and tapped the table with the bludgeon to call the judge's attention.

"Do you feel inclined to make another attempt to score a point, your lordship?"

The judge awoke out of a revery into which he had been plunged.

"Is it worth my while, sir?"

"That is for you to decide."

"The dice are loaded against me. You have decided the end, it seems, so that whatever I may say----"

"Come, come, do not be so melancholy. I assure you I was prepared to act impartially if you had been able to convince me of the justice of your views."

The judge glanced at the array of glasses in front of his antagonist, then his gaze strayed to the windows. His hand fumbled at his waistcoat and drew out his watch.

"There is just time," urged the waiter.

The judge was silent. He was really pondering how he could overcome this man whom he believed to be mad. He was silent.

"Let me make a sporting offer," remarked the waiter, encouragingly. "Do you feel depressed because I have won six of your men?"

Still the judge did not speak, though his countenance showed that he was far from being happy.

"I will stake my six glasses against one for a final throw. Does that appeal to you?"

The judge's head raised and his eyes showed a glint of hope.

"Explain yourself," he said.

"You heard me well enough. I will repeat the conditions of the challenge we agreed to at the beginning of our evening's entertainment. For every case you proved that the judgment of death was deserved you were to gain a member's return to consciousness. I have won six times. You, none. I propose now to stake my six points against your ability to cite a case proving your claim. Thus you will be entitled to a verdict. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"And you accept the offer?"

The judge considered.

"If I should obtain the verdict," he said, "it would mean that you had lost, for we cannot carry this discussion on a great deal longer."

"It would mean that I had lost," agreed the waiter.

"And that you were my prisoner?"

"Ah, that is a new element!"

"But it is a reasonable one."

"It was not on the cards, to begin with."

"You think the risk is too much!" pressed the judge, challengingly, just as the waiter had challenged him at the start.

"I think it was not in the original issue. You were on trial."

"And now, supposing the positions are changed----"

"I cannot suppose anything of the sort. I was not guilty of upholding the judgment of death code. It was you who were placed on trial. The best you can expect is to be acquitted."

The judge bit his lip.

"Well, that is always something," he said, with a faint smile.

"It is perhaps more than you can expect--unless you have a remarkable trump card up your sleeve which you have not shown. Am not I giving you every opportunity to show that trump? Is it not a great risk I am taking in making you this offer of the six points against one?"

"I appreciate its generosity. On the other hand----"

"It may mean that I have great faith in my own ability."

"Or none whatever in mine!"

"Precisely."

"I wonder which!"

"Ah!"

They were actually smiling to each other like two counsel engaged in a lawsuit!

The judge turned over the pages of the minute-book, genial and beaming. He looked at the recorded meetings rather critically, apparently not quite sure which case to select. The waiter watched him, and it was curious that the waiter no longer smiled. His face became clouded and heavy, and his eye glinted cunningly.

"Are you in a difficulty as to the case you will choose?" he asked, without looking directly at the judge.

"I must confess that I have a few here, the claims of which all seem equally decisive."

"What about the case of the man who was hanged for shooting Goff, the money-lender? There was what you, and the public, too, called an unforgivable crime!"

The judge smiled.

"Thank you for reminding me. It certainly was a crime committed by a man whose act showed the basest ingratitude for favors received."

He considered a moment, scrutinizing the face of the waiter, but that person's countenance was without expression. The judge came to the conclusion that, since they had been on almost good terms a few moments previously, the waiter was generously suggesting a case where the judge could, with ease, capture the six glasses. Thus the evening would end in a truce, or rather in a deadlock; and the adventure of Christmas Eve would end in both sides calling quits.

But the judge, while disposed to accept this conclusion in order to recover his fellow members from their oblivion, did not intend to let the matter rest there. Secretly he felt that he could not allow the insults to which he had been subjected to go without correction. The waiter had been grossly impudent. He had taken liberties that no waiter, that no man, had any right to take. Besides he was an admitted criminal. So the judge reflected that, for the time being, he would pretend to let the affair blow over, he would have his friends brought back to life, he would even allow the waiter to leave the premises free. But the police must hear of this outrage without delay so that such a state of things might never be repeated. They would easily trace this waiter who had the aliases of Adam Jelks and Lorry Black. Under these names his fingerprints would be on file. And when he was caught and brought before the bench the judge would read him a lecture and would give him a sentence--but not a very severe one. Perhaps one in the second division. Just enough to remind him that the law was not to be derided and trifled with. It might be for the man's good to send him to preventive detention for a space. Now, the shortest term of preventive detention was five years. Well, was a judge to be insulted and the law to be held up to ridicule? The thought of preventive detention brought the judge's mind back to the murder case that had been suggested to him. He breathed freely, yawned, and once more his deep tones sounded throughout the apartment.

THE BLINDNESS OF JUSTICE

I am really indebted to you [said the judge] for recalling the murder of Mr. Goff, the money-lender, although it is more than possible that I would have selected this crime in any case. The murder and the discovery of the murderer provide excellent examples of, first, the patience and penetrative ability of the police, and, second, the blindness of our justice. Especially does the second aspect appeal to me, and I am sure you must admit that it is the most salient feature of the case. No effort to thwart her decisions, no dodge to influence her judgment, has any effect on the Ideal whose figure, gilded and noble in proportions, stands on the highest pinnacle of the Criminal Court, the scales of justice in her left hand, the sword in her right, and her eyes bandaged to prove that impartiality and intellectual discernment guide her always.

The man who was hanged for the murder of Mr. Goff, nevertheless, in spite of proof that he was guilty of miserable ingratitude and a most detestable crime, had the audacity to make a fight for his miserable life that is memorable in the annals of our penal statutes. Several defenses were brought forward. The first was that he was not guilty--which, of course, is the formal plea of every criminal. One takes little notice of this stereotyped defense, for it is merely the basis of legal proof or disproof. But one defense--or part of the whole defense--had to be argued very closely. This was the more or less reliable data put in by the defending counsel that his client was insane.

One mentions this because it was on that basis that the appeal against the verdict of death went before the higher court. My summing-up was also attacked on the ground that it was biased. Such absurdity! What could possibly induce a judge to be biased one way or the other? Nothing at all. The Court of Appeal made short work of that suggestion and upheld my ruling. As for the plea of insanity, that, too, was ridiculed, as it deserved to be. It has become so common.

Perhaps it would be as well to state here the legal definition of insanity, for I had to remind counsel of it more than once during the trial. Up to 1843 the tests were rather crude, but when insanity was pleaded with success on behalf of Daniel McNaghten--the man who shot and killed Sir Robert Peel's private secretary in the belief that he was shooting Sir Robert--it was realized that a close and clear interpretation ought to be laid down. After due consideration a number of judges, all learned and competent in law, pronounced that an accused person was insane within the meaning of the term when he "was laboring under such a defect of reason from disease of the mind as not to know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or, if he did know, that he did not know he was doing wrong."

The waiter at this point raised his hand in interruption, and remarked, bitterly:

"The definition is as clear as mud. In this it resembles many other definitions laid down by learned lawyers. I could cite a number of public men who, under that ruling, ought to be in criminal lunatic asylums."

The judge did not take any notice of the criticism, but continued as if he were explaining the law to an attentive jury:

Another step was taken as late as 1922 to define the term "insanity" with even more exactitude. A special committee was appointed, largely because the plea had become so usual, especially in murder charges. This committee came to the decision that there was no ground to sentence a mentally defective person for a criminal act provided this defect "prevented him knowing that the act was wrongful, or prevented him from controlling his own conduct."

Once more the waiter raised his expostulating hand and interrupted with the biting words:

"A long way of admitting the existence of uncontrollable impulse. It is the Lombroso theory denying individual responsibility, for who is capable of always controlling his conduct? Yet you judges accept this as law while disregarding it in practice."

Again the judge appeared not to hear the words of the waiter, in which he seemed to observe, nevertheless, a hint of future opposition. He went on with his story calmly and with dignity:

Let us now consider the crime itself and the remarkable circumstances in which it was committed. We can best do so by putting ourselves in the position of the police, who earned great credit by the method used to find the guilty person.

Mr. Goff, the money-lender, occupied a house in a country district. On this particular night he had several guests down from town, and after they had all retired he went into his library at about ten minutes to midnight. His purpose was to fill up some loan forms. He sat down at his desk, facing a large French window that opened out to the garden. The window was wide open, for the evening was warm.

Mr. Goff had just been seated in his chair when there was a knock on his door and his manservant, a man named John Williams, thrust his head into the room.

"Shall you want me any more tonight, sir?" he asked.

"No," replied Goff; then he added, "Are all the visitors in their rooms?"

"I think so, sir."

"Very well. Lock up as usual and leave me."

Williams withdrew. Mr. Goff flourished his pen, took a sip from a glass of refreshment at his elbow, and was about to begin writing when a sound near the open French window caused him to look up.

A masked man was standing by the window with a revolver in his hand. Before Goff could give a shout of alarm the revolver was fired. Goff fell back into his chair with a bullet in his brain.

The intruder stepped to the safe, the open door of which attracted him. He was wearing gloves. Opening the door wide, he rummaged in the drawers, found several small bundles of banknotes, and pocketed them. He pushed the door close again and walked to the French window.

According to the police reconstruction of the crime it was at this stage, when he had already pulled off his gloves and had thrown his gun away, that his eye caught something that startled him. The glass at Mr. Goff's elbow had been upset when his arms sprawled outward, and was rolling slowly toward the edge of the desk. The murderer caught it before it fell and left it lying in the spilled liquor. Then he disappeared.

A few minutes later Williams, the manservant, opened the door of the library, after knocking once, and saw his employer dead in the chair. He did not lose his head. He went out to the hall and telephoned for the police. After this he aroused the guests and servants, but did not allow them to enter the room.

The police headquarters for the village were situated about a mile from the house. The arrival of an inspector and a constable was heralded by the growling of the watch-dog. Williams and the inspector knew each other quite well.

The inspector was a large man, slow of movement and heavy of frame. He first of all cleared the servants from the hall and stationed his constable there. He then invited Williams into the library and closed the door. Mr. Goff was finished with money-lending forever, and it was now the business of the police to find his murderer.

There was, of course, no sign of a struggle in the room. On a side table were four empty glasses besides a pack of cards. The guests had been playing before they retired. Mr. Goff's empty glass lay on his desk in a pool of slipped liquor. The door of the safe, which was built into the wall next the bookcase, was open.

The inspector took in these details rapidly. He noted that the French window was ajar, allowing anyone to pass out or in. The rustle of the wind among the trees in the garden whispered through the room.

The inspector bent over the dead man for a moment, then sat down and took out a notebook and pencil.

"Sit down, Williams, and tell me about it. Where were you when you heard the shot?"

"I didn't hear a shot, Inspector; that is the funny thing. I had been clearing up after supper. The guests were upstairs. I came in to see if Mr. Goff wanted me any more, and he said he didn't. Then I went upstairs. But I had forgotten to mention a detail to him--a trivial matter about my usual holiday. I get off usually for Saturday and I wanted to have a little extra this week-end. When I opened the door I found him--like this. That was just before midnight, just on the stroke."

"How many guests are there?"

"Four gentlemen from London."

"Has anybody been in this room since you made the discovery?"

"No. I awakened the guests, of course, but I did not allow anybody to come into the room. I knew you wouldn't want that. But they looked in. I could not prevent them. It is a terrible business."

"Go on. You did not hear a shot?"

"Not a sound. The French window was open as it has been all evening. They were smoking a lot."

The inspector glanced at the dead man and then toward the window.

"Had Mr. Goff any enemies that you know of, Williams?"

"Well, I couldn't name any, but what moneylender hasn't?"

"That is true. The murderer, it seems, shot him from the open window. Let us look."

The inspector took an electric torch from his pocket and went round the room, flashing the light into dim corners and under the furniture. He bent down to the carpet several times. He went out to the garden and spent some time searching along the path and among the flower-beds. Presently he uttered an exclamation and dragged something from under a rhododendron bush. It was a revolver. He brought it into the room and examined it before putting it into his pocket. Then he turned to Williams, who had remained seated all this time.

"There is a silencer on this gun, John. That is why you did not hear the shot."

"Ah, that's the reason, is it?" exclaimed Williams. "I wondered about that."

The inspector walked back to the window and faced the dead man. After a few moments he spoke again.

"The man who killed Mr. Goff fired from about where I stand. He came in from the garden through this open window. He must have fired at once or Goff would have made some resistance and raised an alarm. The reason Goff's head is thrown back as you see is because he looked up from his desk just in time to receive the bullet in his forehead. The smack drove his head backward. That is why his face is turned toward the ceiling and his neck on the back of his chair."

"I see," answered the manservant.

"Then the criminal threw away this gun----"

"In his flight?"

"Perhaps."

The inspector went round the room again, looking at the walls and the floor. He came to the card-table and sat down beside it, leaning his elbow on the table, and fingering his chin thoughtfully.

"Was there much money in the safe, John?"

"I don't know how much, but I should say a tidy bit. You see, the four visitors came here to arrange the details of loans, so I understood. It was an idea of Mr. Goff to ask regular borrowers down to talk over terms--I mean big borrowers, of course; his customers, one might call them."

"Robbery and murder!" murmured the inspector. "It is a big case, John. Bigger than we've had hereabouts since I can remember. I'll have to question everybody in the house. Somebody may have heard a suspicious sound."

"They've all told me that they didn't hear anything. We talked it out before you came, but the guests are in the morning-room. They'll be glad to tell you all they know."

"I'll have a word with them later. Pure formality, but rules are rules, you know. This will mean a long report."

He glanced round the room once more, rubbing his chin and shaking his head dismally.

"You see, Williams, to find the criminal we ought to reconstruct the crime. We know that Mr. Goff was a wealthy money-lender. He kept a safe in this room. It is there, with the door open. There has not been any struggle. Mr. Goff was at his desk, writing. The pen he was using is on the blotter. The sheets of paper in front of him are forms to be filled up for loans----"

"Which the guests were to sign in the morning," said Williams.

"Of course, that's it; and the terms had been arranged, or Mr. Goff would not have been in the act of filling up the forms. Along comes the murderer, looks in at the window, sees Mr. Goff and the open safe--and shoots him! It's hard on the four visitors who had come for loans. What are they saying about it?"

"They're a bit upset, naturally. Will you have a word with them now?"

"Before I go in to see them, John, tell me who they are."

"Oh, I know very little about them--as little as a man in my position knows about guests."

"Tell me what that amounts to."

"Well, there is Mr. Ralph Brunner. He is a bookmaker and tipster. He has a house at Epsom, but he goes all over the country. You know what some racing men are--loud-voiced, bragging. He lives and talks without reserve. He has been here often."

"Yes. And the next?"

"Mr. Jacob Finn. He is one of the nicest gentlemen I have ever served. He was a doctor at one time, but got into trouble over a wrong diagnosis and it broke him. He has acted as medical friend to the boss."

"The next?"

"Mr. Roger Cass, who has had many business deals with Mr. Goff. The two were great friends. He was the only one who talked openly at supper about the loan he was needing."

"The next?"

"Mr. Philip Oakland, a friend of Mr. Brunner's. I don't know what his business is, but he is always complaining of being hard up and how difficult it is to make ends meet these days. That's all I know about the guests."

"Any new servants?"

"Oh, no. We have only the cook, and the gardener who is her husband, as you know well enough. There is the maid to help the cook. They are in the kitchen now. I told them you would want to see everybody."

"That was right."

"You see, Inspector, I lost no time before calling you. You could not be expected to get the murderer if you didn't get a quick start on his trail. And then, I have the guests to consider. They are going back to town."

"When are they intending to go?"

"I had my orders to see to them. I was told at supper that they were going back by the midday train tomorrow--I mean today, since it is now morning."

"Have you seen anybody hanging about here lately--any suspicious-looking person?"

"Well, the visitors took up all my time since they came the other day. It was one call, call, call, from morning until night. Four gentlemen take a lot of looking after."

The inspector remained silent for some time; so long, indeed, that Williams became irritated at the slowness of the man's mind.

"Hadn't we better be getting on with it?" he ventured. "You'll report this to Scotland Yard, I suppose, Inspector?"

"Not yet, Williams. If I report and ask their help they'll send an investigator down. He can't arrive before the afternoon or evening. Maybe I'll send a call to the county headquarters, however. You'll help me all you can, won't you?"

"Certainly, Inspector. Well, what about seeing the guests? They're anxious to tell you anything and then get off to their business."

"Williams, have you ever snared rabbits?"

"No."

"Or trapped hares?"

"No."

"Or hunted otter?"

"No."

"Or dug for badgers, or went after moles?

"No. What has all this to do with----"

"If you had done any of these things you'd appreciate the value of patience. You're a townsman. I'm not going into your past, for we know each other. We in the country need patience and we acquire it. After all, the man who committed this crime was patient, so why shouldn't we be? He came here meaning to do it."

"You think so?"

The inspector took from his pocket the revolver he had found in the garden and laid it flat on his broad palm.

"The number plate has been filed off to keep us from tracing where it was bought. That was cunning."

"I see."

"The murderer wore gloves so that there would not be fingerprints--proof that the crime was not spasmodic and uncontrollable impulse. He has not left a trail. He is more cunning than any otter or badger I ever hunted. I think I'll send a call to county headquarters."

"You mean for them to keep a lookout for strangers?"

"Well, they look after the details of the prosecution at trials----"

"But you haven't got a clue yet and the man you want may be well on his road anywhere. If he goes to the city you'll never find him. This looks like a case of town _versus_ country!"

"It is crime _versus_ justice," corrected the inspector, gravely.

"Well, what are you going to do?"

The inspector took a sheet of paper from the desk and began to write rapidly. Williams watched him contemptuously. When the inspector finished writing he took an envelope from the stationery rack and addressed it carefully.

"I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Williams. The police doctor must see the body and give his certificate. Will you please go to my office in the village and deliver this note to the sergeant in charge? He will be expecting to hear from me."

"Why not send the policeman who is in the hall?"

"I'll need him to corroborate my report. Two of us are necessary here."

"Or telephone?"

"The doctor must have written instructions."

Williams took the envelope and went out of the room, the inspector at his heels. In the hall he turned.

"What if I meet the murderer?"

"Take the dog with you if you're afraid, but I hardly think you'll meet anyone. Come, I'll see you off."

He went into the yard, where the manservant released the dog and put him on a leash. The inspector accompanied him to the front gate and watched him go toward the village. Then the inspector returned to the room where the dead man was still in his chair.

He examined the floor again, but could not find any footprints of special interest, for there had been quite a lot of walking about the room and there were marks of people having come in from the garden in plenty.

The inspector next went upstairs, where he remained some time. At last he returned to the hall floor and went into the morning-room. The four guests were sitting, clad in dressing-gowns, before a bright fire.

"This is a bad affair, gentlemen," said the inspector. "I'm sorry if I have caused you any inconvenience, but I'll need to keep you up a little longer. Perhaps, instead of questioning you all separately, you can tell me right away, so I can get my report made out."

They signified their consent at once.

"It is a shocking nuisance," cried the tallest man of the four. "I came down, like my friends, to get some money, and here we are mixed up in a murder without a chance to put the loans through. If I'd anything to do with the police I'd have every man out scouring the roads by this time----"

"You are Mr. Ralph Brunner?" interrupted the inspector, quietly.

"That is my name. How did you know?"

"I thought you were Mr. Brunner. Now to the work of finding a clue. Did any of you gentlemen hear a noise?"

Not one of them had heard anything, or knew anything, until they were awakened by Williams, who told them of the tragedy. Brunner said it took him some minutes to grasp what the manservant informed him of, and he wondered if he was even now in a dream.

Oakland glowered into the fire, nodding his head profoundly and muttering about "hard luck."

Finn smoked a cigarette and asked the inspector just where the shot had struck Goff and if he had died instantaneously. He then turned and explained to Cass, who was seated next him, just what happens when a bullet plugs its way through one's forehead.

Cass did not seem to be listening very intently.

At the end of five minutes the inspector wrote out a short statement and the four guests signed it in turn.

"Is there no clue?" asked Brunner. "Can't you get ahead and search the countryside?"

"There is no clue yet, sir, but we'll find one. There always is a clue."

"It looks as if the perfect murder has been committed," said Finn. "What do you think, Inspector?"

"There isn't such a thing as the perfect murder," replied the inspector. "No crimes are clueless. There is always at least one clue."

"For God's sake, then, find one here!" cried Brunner; and Oakland echoed the words, but rather lifelessly.

"We'll find one, gentlemen, never fear. Criminals take pains to hide their tracks, but I never knew one who did it successfully. They all leave their marks somewhere, somehow. It may be a button, a handkerchief, a weapon, or a fingerprint. It may be a footmark on the floor. But they always leave a trail. No man can walk into a room and do what this criminal did without leaving traces of his presence."

"That sounds easy in theory," smiled Finn. "But when it comes to practical things--well, you don't mind my saying that your abilities will have to be high to work it out in this case. You have admitted an absence of clues."

"It isn't my abilities, sir. It's the criminals who forget some little thing. By the way, whose cigarette case is this? I found it under the card table."

"That's mine!" cried Cass, swiftly; and his face went white as he stretched out his hand. "You don't--mean--you can't mean to suggest----"

A sudden silence filled the room. The three other guests looked at one another, then at Cass. Cass was gazing in a scared way at the inspector. Fate seemed to hang in the balance. The inspector laughed as he handed over the case.

"I don't mean to suggest anything, sir, except that the case must have fallen when you were playing. You don't think I was charging you with the crime!"

"For a moment I thought you were," said Finn, glancing at the inspector keenly. "I don't mind confessing I thought so. And so did my friends. As a doctor--a discredited one, but still a doctor--I should say that Cass's heart gave him a nasty turn just now----"

"Your heart is tough enough, anyway, Finn," burst out Brunner, with a forced laugh. "You are the only one who hasn't changed color. But then, you are a doctor and you're tough. I never saw you upset."

"Doctors don't show emotion," replied Finn, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the fire. "Strike the bell, Brunner, and have Williams fetch us something to drink. It will do Cass good."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," put in the inspector, "but Williams isn't in the house. He has gone on an errand for me, but there is no need to stay up any longer. I was merely proving to you that there is always something a criminal forgets----"

"What about all the undiscovered criminals?" demanded Finn. "There have been murders--all countries have them--where the murderer is never found. I believe that in England the proportion of acquittals for murder is higher than for many other crimes. Answer that if you can."

"I think I can, sir. You see, in murder the strongest proofs of guilt are required, stronger than in any other crime. And not so long ago the Home Office issued a statement on this very subject. It is called _Criminal Statistics_ and there it is stated that an acquittal does not necessarily imply failure to detect the perpetrator of the crime. Some juries shrink from giving a verdict of guilty where others would not hesitate. When I handed over that cigarette case I was just trying to show how little things are often forgotten by anybody."

"Bah! You found the case and knew it must belong to one of us. Cass has claimed it. What about the other three of us? You said no man could walk into a room and fail to leave traces. I'll bet you could not prove--actually prove--that we three were in that room."

"You forget, sir, the glasses on the table. Your fingerprints must be on those glasses."

The inspector arose. The door of the room had opened while he was answering Finn.

Williams, the manservant, had returned, and handed a note to the inspector. The latter opened it and read its contents.

"Good," he said. "My sergeant has gone to fetch the doctor. He'll be here shortly."

"Maybe the doctor will find a clue for you!" said Finn, ironically. "Do you mind if we wait up to see?"

"Not at all. I don't suppose the examination will be long. Doctors never are. Oh, there will be a clue, sir, though we may not get it right away. I believe there is always a clue. Well, thank you for your statement, gentlemen. After the doctor is finished you can go to your rooms to rest after the upsetting business. But nobody is to go into the library--not during the night or until I give permission----"

"Are you staying here all night?" asked Brunner.

"No, my constable and I will go back with the doctor. We have work to do, you know."

"The flying squad!" said Oakland, sneeringly. "By heck! And anybody would have had men out to search the roads long ago--anybody with sand, I mean. It's up aloft some officials need it. By God!"

"That's true, Oakland," cried Brunner. "The wanted man will be far enough off by this time. Counting his banknotes, I have no doubt."

"Oh, we'll get him, sir, don't you fear," asserted the inspector, confidently. "By the way, Williams, you will lock up as usual after we've gone and get to bed----"

"Meantime he can get us a drink," said Finn, rising and stretching his arms. Then taking out his cigarette case and finding it empty, he added: "I'm going up to my room for smokes. Williams, you know my taste. Whisky and soda. I suppose you three will wait up for the doctor?"

They nodded agreement.

"It's a terrible end for old Goff," said Brunner, "but, though I wish I could stay and see it through, I've got to get back to town, especially now the loan has dropped through. Will you wait here with us, Inspector, for the doctor?"

The inspector accepted the invitation and Williams brought in the drinks. Finn came back with a supply of cigarettes for all; but they were not long seated when the doctor arrived by automobile.

The examination was not of long duration, and when it was over the inspector informed the guests that they could now go to bed. After a last drink they went off, but not before asking if a clue had been found.

"Sorry there's nothing new," the inspector admitted; and the guests looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders as they went upstairs to their rooms.

Williams let the doctor and the inspector out by the front door. The constable went with them, for there was now no reason to remain in the house. The servants had all been sent to their quarters, and with a last instruction not to allow anyone into the library the officials went out to the waiting car.

As the inspector and his constable took their seats in the car they heard the manservant locking the front door. The car started for the village; but it had not gone more than a hundred yards when the inspector requested the doctor to stop.

"I have forgotten something," he explained. "My man and I will have to go back and we may be some time. You'd better go on, Doctor."

The doctor made an offer to run them back, but this was declined and the inspector and his man returned together, while the doctor made for home.

Not a word passed between the inspector and the constable until they had almost reached the house. It was the inspector who spoke.

"This way," he said, gruffly, pointing to the hedge. They broke their way through. They were now in a meadow that bordered the garden of Goff's house.

"Into the library!" ordered the inspector.

They found a gap in the garden hedge big enough to allow them to press through. They crossed the lawn noiselessly and entered the apartment by the open French window.

The inspector stationed his man behind the door while he took up another position.

"Have your flashlamp ready!" he whispered.

"What's to be done, sir?"

"Wait!"

They sat like black statues in the death chamber. All was still in the house.

An hour passed.

Through the quietness came a shuffling sound, a furtive footstep. It came from the hall.

It reached the door of the library. The key was turned in the lock. The door opened softly. A man glided into the room.

He moved cautiously, with hardly a sound.

He reached the side of the murdered man and bent down toward the desk, his hands stretched out, searching for something. And then----

_Flash!_

The flood of the inspector's torchlight was but a fraction in front of that of the constable. The man beside the desk leaped back with a cry. The wineglass which he had touched was thrown to the floor and smashed.

"Hold him!" cried the inspector. "We have the murderer."

"I am innocent! I am innocent!" cried the wretch who had thus been caught red-handed as it were.

The inspector lit the lights of the room.

He looked triumphantly at the man who was his prisoner.

"You know enough of the law," he said, warningly, "to know that anything you may say will be taken down in writing. There were five men in this house, five possible murderers. I was certain it was one of you. I know what you came for just now. I mentioned the possibility of fingerprints on the glasses purposely. It was a bait; and it fetched you."

The inspector turned to the dead body of the money-lender.

"Maybe you would like to know why I suspected one of you five? It was easy. When we came here the dog started a row. Had the murderer been a stranger the dog would have awakened the household. The dog must have known the man who came in at the French window. Moreover, there are no fingerprints on the safe door, and none on the revolver. That meant the murderer used gloves. An ordinary country burglar doesn't use gloves. It was a city crook's crime. But the glasses had fingerprints--and that glass by Goff's chair was upright on its base in the center of the spilled wine. It had been placed that way after it fell, knocked over by Goff's flailing arms when he was shot! That was easy to deduce."

The inspector turned to his subordinate.

"Guard him while I make another search of his room. I hadn't time to go through it properly first time."

Five minutes later the inspector returned to the library with the bundles of banknotes that were missing from the safe.

"They were under a corner of your carpet," he said, quietly. "We need no more proof."

The prisoner was dumb, struck silent by this incriminating evidence before his eyes.

"Goff befriended you," went on the inspector, sternly, "when you needed friends. He treated you well. He did not know that you had a bad record and had just been released from a period of preventive detention for being a habitual criminal. I am charging you with murder, John Williams. I've been keeping my eye on you for some time. I suppose you will go quietly."

And Williams went without a word. He did not say anything from that moment until, in his cell, he asked for a solicitor to undertake his defense.

He was hanged in spite of his fight for his worthless life.

That was certainly an occasion on which I donned the black cap with every justification....

The waiter flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his coat.

"You will pardon me," he said, crushingly, "if I disagree with your final observation. The execution of John Williams was indeed the sentence of a very blind justice, my lord! The real murderer of Goff, the money-lender, is alive and well today and your penal code cannot lay a hand on him because (although he makes no secret of his guilt) your law cannot charge a second man with a murder for which another has already paid!"