Monsieur Judas: A Paradox

Transcriber's Notes:
1. Original text provided by Walter Moore for Project Gutenberg Australia.
https://gutenberg.org.au/ebooks17/1700671h.html
2. Publication date is 1891 per British Museum Catalogue of Printed Books page
491—https://books.google.com/books?id=_5ghAQAAMAAJ&pg

Monsieur Judas

A Paradox

by

Fergus Hume

London:
Spencer Blackett
[1891]

[Chapter 1]

The Jarlchester Mystery

Not an important place by any means, this sleepy little town lying at the foot of a low range of undulating hills, beside a slow-flowing river. A square-towered church of Norman architecture, very ancient and very grim; one principal narrow street, somewhat crooked in its course; other streets, narrower and more crooked, leading off on the one side to the sheltering hills, and on the other down to the muddy stream. Market-place octagonal in shape, with a dilapidated stone cross of the Plantagenet period in the centre; squat stone bridge, with massive piers, across the sullen gray waters; on the farther shore a few red-roofed farmhouses; beyond, fertile pastoral lands and the dim outline of distant hills.

Picturesque in a quiet fashion certainly, but not striking in any way; a haven of rest for worn-out people weary of worldly troubles, but dull—intensely dull—for visionary youth longing for fame. The world beyond did not know Jarlchester, and Jarlchester did not know the world beyond, so accounts were thus equally balanced between them.

Being near Winchester, the ancient capital of Saxon England, it was asserted by archaeologists that Jarlchester, sleepy and dull as it was in the nineteenth century, had once been an important place. Jarl means Earl, and Chester signifies a camp; so those wiseacres asserted that the name Jarlchester meant the Camp of the Earl; from which supposition arose a fable that Jarl Godwin had once made the little town his head-quarters when in revolt against pious Edward who built St. Peter's of Westminster. As Godwin, however, according to history, never revolted against the King, and generally resided in London, the authenticity of the story must be regarded as doubtful. Nevertheless, Jarlchester folks firmly believed in it, and sturdily held to their belief against all evidence to the contrary, however clearly set forth.

They were a sleepy lot as a rule, those early-to-bed and early-to-rise country folk; for nothing had occurred for years to disturb their sluggish minds, so they had gradually sunk into a state of somnolent indifference, with few ideas beyond the weather and the crops.

Then Jarlchester, unimportant since Anglo-Saxon times, suddenly became famous throughout England on account of "The Mystery," and the mystery was "A Murder."

On this moist November morning, when the whole earth shivered under a bleak gray sky, a crowd, excited in a dull, bovine way, was assembled in front of the "Hungry Man Inn," for in the commercial-room thereof, now invested with a ghastly interest, an inquest was being held on the body of a late guest of the inn, and the bucolic crowd was curious to know the verdict.

A long, low-ceilinged apartment this commercial-room, with a narrow deal table covered with a glaring red cloth down the centre; four tall windows looking out on to the crowd, who, with faces flattened against the glass, peered into the room. A jury of lawful men and true, much impressed with a sense of their importance, seated at the narrow table; at the top thereof, the coroner, Mr. Carr, bluff, rosy-faced, and eminently respectable. Near him a slender young man, keen-eyed and watchful, taking notes (reported by the crowd outside to be a London detective); witnesses seated here, there, and everywhere among eager spectators; but the body! oh, where was the body, which was the culminating point of interest in the whole gruesome affair? The crowd outside was visibly disappointed to learn that the body was lying upstairs in a darkened room, and the jury, half eager, half fearful, having inspected it according to precedent, were now assembled to hear all procurable evidence as to the mode in which the living man of two days ago became the body upstairs.

First Witness.—Boots. Short, grimy, bashful; pulls forelock stolidly, shuffles with his feet, is doubtful as to aspirates, and speaks hoarsely, either from cold—it is raining—or from nervousness either of the jury or of the body; perhaps both.

"Name? Jim Bulkins, sir. Bin boots at ''Ungry Man' fur two year'n more come larst Easter. Two days back, gen'man—him upstair—come 'ere t' stay. Come wi' couach fro' Winchester. Ony a bag—leather bag—very light. Carried 't upstair fur gen'man, who 'ad thir'-seven. Gen'man come 'bout five. 'Ad dinner, then wrote letter. Posted letter hisself. Show'd 'im post orfice. Guv me sixpence; guv me t'other fur carr'in' up bag. Seemed cheerful. Went t' bed 'bout nine. Nex' mornin' I went upstair with butts. Gen'man arsked fur butts t' be givin pusonally t' 'im 'cause 'e were perticler 'bout polish. Knocked at door; n' anser. Knocked agin; n' anser. Thought gen'man 'sleep, so pushed door to put butts inside; door were open."

Coroner.—"What do you mean by the door being open?"

Witness.—"Weren't locked, sir; closed t' a bit—what you might call ajar, sir. Entered room, put down butts; gen'man were lyin' quiet in bed. Thought 'e were sleepin' an' come downstair. This were 'bout nine. At ten went up agin. Knocked; n' anser. Knocked agin; n' anser. Went into room agin; gen'man still sleepin'. Went to wake 'im an' found 'e were ded. Sung out at onct, an' Mr. Chickles 'e come up."

Juryman (sharp-nosed and inquisitive).—"How was he lying when you saw him first?"

Witness.—"Bedclose up t' chin, sir. 'Ands and h'arms inside bedclose; lyin' on back—bedclose smooth like. Know'd 'e were ded by whiteness of 'is face—like chalk, sir—h'awful!"

Coroner.—"Are you sure deceased asked you to give him his boots personally next morning?"

Witness.—"Yes, sir—said 'e were vury perticler."

Coroner.—"Did he seem to you like a man intending to make away with himself?"

Witness.—"No, sir. Quite lively like. Sed as 'ow 'e were goin' to look roun' this 'ole nex' day, sir."

Coroner (pompously).—"And what did the deceased mean by the expression 'this hole,' my man?"

Witness (grinning).—"Jarlchester, sir."

Great indignation on the part of the patriotic jury at hearing their native town thus described, and as Boots is still grinning, thinking such remark to be an excellent joke, he is told sharply to stand down, which he does with obvious relief.

The next witness called was Sampson Chickles, the landlord of the "Hungry Man." A fat, portly individual is Mr. Chickles, with a round red face, and a ponderous consciousness that he is the hero of the hour—or rather the minute. "Swear Sampson Chickles!" Which is done by a fussy clerk with a rapid gabble and a dingy Bible—open at Revelations—and Mr. Chickles, being sworn to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, gives his evidence in a fat voice coming somewhere from the recesses of his rotund stomach.

"My name, gentlemen, is Sampson Chickles, and I've lived in Jarlchester, man and boy, sixty years. But I keep my health wonderful, gentlemen, saving a touch of the—"

Coroner.—"Will the witness kindly confine himself to the matter in hand?"

Witness (somewhat ruffled).—"Meaning the dead one, I presume, Mr. Carr. Certainly, Mr. Carr; I was coming to that. He—meaning the dead one—came here two days ago by the coach from Winchester. There is, gentlemen, no name on his bag—there is no name on his linen—no letters, no cards in his pockets—not even initials, gentlemen, to prevent his clothes being stolen at the wash. He never mentioned his name, Mr. Carr. I was going to ask him next morning, but he was dead, and therefore, gentlemen, not in a position to speak. As far as I am concerned, Mr. Carr, the dead one has never been christened. The mystery—meaning the dead one—has no name that I ever heard of, and was spoken of by me and my daughter (who may know more than her father) as the gentleman in No. 37. I only spoke to the dead one twice, Mr. Carr and gentlemen; once when I arranged about terms—thirty shillings a week, gentlemen, not including wine—and again when I asked him if he had enjoyed his dinner—soup, fish, fowl, and pudding. Gentlemen, he had enjoyed his dinner."

A Juryman (hungry-looking, evidently thinking of the dinner).—"Was he cheerful, Mr. Chickles?"

Witness.—"Jocund, sir, if I may use the term. Merry as a lark."

Facetious juryman suggests wine.

Witness (with mournful dignity).—"No, sir! Pardon me, Mr. Specks, he had no wine while he was in this house. His explanation was a simple one, gentlemen—wine did not agree with his pills—tonic pills, Mr. Carr—one to be taken before bedtime every night."

Coroner (with the air of having found something).—"Pills, eh? Did he look ill?"

Witness.—"Not exactly ill, Mr. Carr; not exactly well, gentlemen. Betwixt and between. Weak, sir. His legs shook, his hands trembled, and when a door banged he jumped, gentlemen—jumped!"

A Juryman.—"Then I presume he was taking tonic pills for his constitution?"

Witness.—"Well, yes, Mr. Polder, yes, sir. There is the box of pills—tonic pills, as he—meaning the dead one—told me. Found in his room, gentlemen—on the chest of drawers—after his death."

Inspection of pills by jury. Great curiosity evinced when pills (eight in number) appeared to be like any other pills. The London detective, however, secured the pill-box after inspection, and sat with it in his hand thinking deeply.

Mr. Chickles, having given all his evidence, retired, with the full consciousness that he had given it in a masterly fashion; and his daughter, Miss Molly Chickles, plump, pretty, and a trifle coquettish, was duly sworn. At first she was rather bashful, but having found her tongue—a task of little difficulty for this rustic daughter of Eve—told all she knew with many sidelong glances and confused blushes—feminine arts not quite thrown away on the jury, although they were to a man married and done for.

Said Molly, in answer to the Coroner:

"My name is Mary Chickles. Father calls me Molly. I am the daughter of Sampson Chickles, and barmaid here. I knew the deceased, but he did not tell me his name. He arrived here two days ago—on Tuesday, at five, by the coach. He came into the bar, and asked me if he could put up here for a week. I told him he could, and called father, who arranged about the terms. He then went up to his bedroom and came down to dinner at six. After dinner he went into the parlour, and I think wrote a letter. After doing so he asked me where the post office was. I sent him with Boots, and heard afterwards that he posted his letter. On his return he sat down in the bar for a few minutes. There was no one there at the time. He seemed to me to be very weak, and told me his nerves were shattered. I asked him if he had consulted a doctor. He replied that he had done so, and was taking tonic pills every night before he went to bed. I said that I hoped he took them regular, as it was no use unless he did so. He assured me that he always took one pill every night without fail. He mentioned that he was going to stay for a time in Jarlchester, and hoped the quiet would do him good."

Coroner.—"Did he say he was down here for his health?"

Witness.—"Not exactly, sir; but he talked a good deal about his nerves, and such like. He said he was going to stay a week or so, and expected a friend to join him shortly."

Coroner.—"Oh! a friend, eh! Man or woman?"

Witness.—"He did not say, sir."

A Juryman.—"When did he expect this friend?"

Witness.—"He said in a few days, but did not mention any special time. After a short conversation he went to bed at nine o'clock, and next morning father told me he was dead."

Coroner.—"Did he appear gloomy or low-spirited?"

Witness.—"Oh, dear no, sir. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman. He said his nerves were bad, but I was quite astonished at his cheerfulness."

Coroner.—"Did he say anything about the next day?"

Witness.—"Yes, sir. He asked if there was anything to be seen in Jarlchester, and when I told him about the church, he said he would look it up next day."

A Juryman.—"Do you think he had any intention of destroying himself?"

Witness.—"Not so far as I saw, sir."

Coroner.—"He did not mention anything about the letter?"

Witness.—"Not a word, sir."

A Juryman (facetiously).—"Did you think him good-looking, Miss Molly?"

Witness (tossing her head).—"Well, not what I call handsome, sir; but there's no knowing what other girls think."

With this parting shot, Miss Chickles retired to her usual place in the bar, and gossiped to outsiders about the present aspect of the case, while Sergeant Spills, the head of the Jarlchester police force, came forward to give his evidence. A crisp, dry-looking man, the Sergeant, with a crisp, dry manner, and a sharp ring in the tones of his voice; economical in his words, decisive in his speech.

"Charles Spills, sir, sergeant of the police in Jarlchester. Jim Bulkins reported death of deceased. Came here, saw body lying in bed. Clothes drawn up to chin. In my opinion, deceased died in his sleep. Examined bag of deceased. Contained linen (not marked), suit of clothes (not marked), toilet utensils of the usual kind. Drawing block and some lead pencils (much used)."

Coroner (prompted by London detective).—"Were there any drawings?"

Witness.—"No, sir."

Coroner.—"No sketches or faces on the block?"

Witness.—"No, sir! Clothes worn by deceased—dark blue serge suit, double-breasted."

Coroner.—"Any name on the clothes?"

Witness.—"No, sir! Tag used to hang up coat, on which tailor's name generally placed, torn off. Searched pockets; found penknife, loose silver (twelve shillings and sixpence), and box of pills laid before the jury. Silver watch on dressing-table—silver chain attached—silver sovereign purse containing six sovereigns. Nothing else."

Coroner.—"Nothing likely to lead to the name of deceased?"

Witness.—"Absolutely nothing, sir. Searched, but found no name. Inquired—discovered no name. Case puzzled me, so wired to London for detective—Mr. Fanks—now sitting on your left."

Sergeant Spills having thus discharged his duty, saluted in a wooden fashion, and substituting Joe Staggers, coachman, for himself, took up a rigid attitude beside him, like a toy figure in a Noah's ark.

Evidence of Joe Staggers. Horsey gentleman, large, red, and fat; smothered voice, suggestive of drink; a god on the box-seat behind four horses, but a mere mortal given to drink when on the ground.

"Joseph Staggers, sur. 'Ees, sur! Druv the coaach fro Winchester t' Jarlchest'r these ten year an' more. Two days ago—it were Toosd'y, cos t' bay 'oss cast a shoe—I were waitin' at station, an' gen'man—the corpus—come up t' me, an' ses 'e, 'Jarlchest'r?' inquiring like. ''Ees, sur,' ses I, an' up 'e gits an' off we goes. 'E sat aside me an' talked of plaace. 'Ees, sur. Ses 'e: 'This are foine arter Lunnon."

Coroner.—"Oh, did he say he had come from London?"

Witness (doggedly).—"'E ses what I sed afore, sur. Talked foine, sur; but didn't knaw a 'oss fro' a cow."

Mr. Staggers' evidence unanimously pronounced by jury to be worse than useless, an opinion not shared by Mr. Fanks (of London, detective), who scratched down something in a secretive little book with a vicious little pencil.

Coroner.—"Call Dr. Drewey."

A most important witness, Dr. Drewey, he having made a post-mortem examination of the body, and the jury, hitherto somewhat languid, now wake up, Mr. Fanks turns over a new page in his secretive little book, and Dr. Drewey, bland, gentlemanlike, in a suit of sober black, and gravely smiling (professional smile), gives his opinion of things with great unction.

"I have examined the body of the deceased. It is that of a man of about eight-and-twenty years of age. Very badly nourished, and with comparatively little food in the stomach. The stomach itself was healthy, but I found the vessels of the head unusually turgid throughout. There was also great fluidity of the blood, and serous effusion in the ventricles. The pupils of the eyes were much contracted. Judging from these appearances, and from the turgescence of the vessels of the brain, I have no hesitation in declaring that the deceased died from an overdose of morphia or of opium."

Coroner.—"Then you think the deceased took an overdose of poison?"

Witness (with bland reproof).—"I say he died from an overdose, but I am not prepared to say that he took it himself."

A Juryman.—"Then some one administered the dose?"

Witness.—"I can't say anything about that."

A Juryman.—"When do you think the deceased died?"

Witness.—"That is a very difficult question to answer. In most cases of poisoning by opium, death takes place within from six to twelve hours. I examined the body of the deceased between one and two o'clock the next day, and from all appearances he had been dead ten hours. According to the evidence of Miss Chickles, he went to bed at nine o'clock, so if he took the dose of opium then—as was most likely—he must have died about four o'clock in the morning."

Coroner.—"During his sleep?"

Witness.—"Presumably so, opium being a narcotic."

Coroner (prompted by London detective).—"Did his stomach look like that of an habitual opium-eater?"

Witness.—"No, not at all."

Coroner.—"According to you, the deceased must have taken the poison at nine o'clock when he went to bed, and on looking at the evidence of Miss Chickles, I see that the deceased stated that he took his tonic pill regularly before he went to bed. Now did it strike you that he might have taken two pills by mistake, which would account for his death?"

Witness (hesitating).—"I acknowledge that such an explanation certainly did occur to me, and I analysed three pills selected at random from the box. When I did so, I found it was impossible such pills could have caused his death."

Coroner (obviously bewildered).—"Why so?"

Witness.—"Because these tonic pills contain arsenic. There is not a grain of morphia to be found in them. If the deceased had died from an overdose of these pills, I would have found traces of arsenic in his stomach; but as he died from the effects of morphia or opium—I am not prepared to say which—these tonic pills have nothing to do with his death."

This decisive statement considerably puzzled the jury. The deceased died of an overdose of morphia, the pills contained nothing but arsenic; so it being clearly proved that the pills had nothing to do with the death, the deceased must have obtained morphia or opium in some other fashion. Sergeant Spills was recalled on the chance that the deceased might have purchased poison from the Jarlchester chemist. In his evidence, however, Sergeant Spills stated that he had, by direction of Dr. Drewey, inquired into the matter, and had been assured by the chemist that the deceased had never been near the shop. The room had been thoroughly searched, and no drugs nor medicine of any kind had been discovered except the box of tonic pills now before the jury. There was absolutely nothing to show how the deceased had come by his death, that is, he had died of an overdose of morphia, but how the morphia had come into his possession was undiscoverable, so the jury were quite bewildered.

All obtainable evidence having been taken, the Coroner gave his opinion thereon in a neat speech, but a speech which showed how undecided he was in his own mind as to the real facts of this peculiar case.

"I think, gentlemen, that you will agree with me in acknowledging this affair to be a remarkably mysterious one. The deceased comes down here from London (as proved by the evidence of Joseph Staggers) for a few days' rest (evidence of Miss Chickles). He gives no name, and has neither name nor initials marked on his linen, his bag, or his clothes. Not even a letter or a card to throw light on his identity. Entirely unknown, he enters the doors of this inn; entirely unknown, he dies the next morning, carrying the secret of his name and his position into the next world. From all accounts (testified by the evidence of several witnesses), he was quite cheerful, and evidently—I cannot be sure—but evidently had no idea of committing suicide. Looking at the question broadly, gentlemen, the idea of suicide would no doubt have to be abandoned; but looking at the case from my point of view, the whole affair is peculiarly suggestive of self-destruction. This gentleman, now deceased, comes down here, he is careful to give no address, which showed that he wished his friends to remain ignorant of his death. He is very cheerful, and talks about exploring the neighbourhood next day—a mere blind, gentlemen of the jury, as I firmly believe. After writing a letter—doubtless one of farewell to some friend—he retires quietly to bed, and is found dead next morning. The post-mortem examination, undertaken by Dr. Drewey, shows that he died from the effects of an overdose of morphia or opium. Now, gentlemen, he must have taken the morphia or opium himself. No one else could have administered it, as he was not known in Jarlchester, having been here only a few hours when his death occurred, so no one had any reason to give him poison. Regarding the pills now before us, they have been analysed by Dr. Drewey, and are found to contain only arsenic, so we may dismiss the pills altogether. He died of morphia and must have taken it himself, as, had it been administered violently by another person, the sounds of a struggle would have been heard. No sounds were heard, however, so this proves to my mind that he killed himself wilfully. No traces of any drugs (saving the pills alluded to) were found in his room; as proved by Sergeant Spills, he bought no drugs from our local chemist, so only one presumption remains. The deceased must have brought here from London a sufficient quantity of morphia to kill him—took it all, and died leaving no trace of the drug behind. Unknown, unnamed, unfriended, the deceased came to this town, and no one but himself could have administered the poison of which he died. You, gentlemen, as well as myself, have heard the evidence of the intelligent witnesses, and will, therefore, give your verdict in accordance with their evidence; but from what has been stated, and from the whole peculiar circumstances of the case, I firmly believe—in my own mind, gentlemen—that the deceased died by his own hand."

Thus far the sapient Coroner, who delivered this address with a solemn air, much to the satisfaction of the jury, who were dull-minded men, quite prepared to be guided by a master-spirit such as they regarded the Coroner.

During the speech, indeed, a scornful smile might have been seen on the thin lips of Mr. Fanks; but no one noticed it, so intent were they on the words of wisdom which fell from the lips of Mr. Coroner Carr.

Under the inspiration, therefore, of the Coroner, the twelve lawful men and true brought in a verdict quite in accordance with their own and the Coroner's ideas on the subject:

"That the deceased (name unknown) died on the morning of the 13th of November, through an overdose of morphia taken by himself during a temporary fit of insanity."

Having thus relieved their minds to their own satisfaction, this assemblage of worthies—asinine for the most part—went their several ways quite convinced that they had solved the Jarlchester Mystery.

"The fools," said Mr. Fanks, scornfully, slipping the pill-box, which had been left on the table, into his pocket. "They think they've got to the bottom of this affair. Why, they don't know what they're talking about."

"You don't think it's suicide?" asked Sergeant Spills, crisply, rather nettled at the poor opinion Mr. Fanks entertained of the Jarlchester brains.

"No, I don't," retorted the detective, coolly; "but I think it's a murder, and an uncommonly clever murder, too."

"But your reasons?" demanded Spills, with wooden severity.

"Ah, my reasons," replied Mr. Fanks, reflectively. "Well, yes! I've got my reasons, but they wouldn't be intelligible to you."

Extracts From a Detective's Note-Book

"A curious case, this Jarlchester Mystery—I must confess myself puzzled . . . From Drewey's evidence deceased died of morphia . . . Pills only contain arsenic . . . can't be any connection between the death and those pills . . . Can't find out where deceased purchased morphia . . . Perhaps Coroner right, and he brought it from London . . . Examined clothes of deceased . . . well made . . . fashionable . . . shabby . . . Qy., seedy swell? . . . such a one might commit suicide . . . Doubtful as to nerve . . .

". . . Don't understand that open door . . . ajar . . . nervous man wouldn't sleep with door ajar . . . absurd . . . Qy., could any one have entered room during night? . . . Impossible, as deceased a stranger here . . .

"Mem.—To find out if any one slept in adjacent rooms.

". . . Examine pill-box . . . sudden idea about same . . . Fancy I'll be able to find name of deceased ... if so look for motive of murder . . . questionable, very! if idea will lead to anything . . . still I'll try . . . This case piques my curiosity . . . Is it murder or suicide? . . . I must discover which . . ."

[Chapter 2]

A Curious Coincidence

That night, after a comfortable dinner—and the "Hungry Man's" dinners were something to be remembered—Mr. Fanks sat in front of the fire staring into a chaos of burning coals, and thinking deeply. It was in the commercial-room, of course, but there were no commercial travellers present. Mr. Fanks with a world of thought in his shrewd face was the only occupant of the room, and sat within the cheery circle of light proceeding from the red glare of the fire and the yellow flame of the lamp, while at his back the place was in semi-darkness. Cold, too—a nipping, chilly, frosty feeling, as if winter was giving the world a foretaste of his Christmas quality, and outside on the four tall windows beat the steady rain, while occasionally a gust of wind made their frames rattle.

Here, however, in this oasis of light in a desert of gloom, everything was pleasant and agreeable, except perchance Mr. Fanks, who sat with his cup of coffee standing on the table at his elbow untasted, while he frowned thoughtfully at the chaotic fire as though he had a personal spite against it.

A clever face, a very clever face, clean shaven, with sharply cut features, dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, and cut short in the military fashion, keen eyes of a bluish tint, with a shrewd twinkle in their depths, and a thin-lipped, resolute mouth—perhaps a trifle too resolute for so young a man (he was not more than thirty); but then, Mr. Fanks, although young in years, was old in experience, and every line on his features was a record of something learned at the cost of something lost, and on that account never forgotten. A smart, alert figure, too, had Mr. Fanks, well-clothed in a rough gray tweed suit, slender, sinewy hands with a ring—signet ring—on the little finger of the left one, and well-formed feet, neatly shod in boots of tanned leather.

A gentleman! Yes, decidedly the London detective was a gentleman—that could be seen by his whole appearance; and as to his dress, well, he wore his clothes like a man who went to a good tailor and valued him accordingly.

Quoth Mr. Fanks, after some minutes of deep thought, during which he removed his keen eyes from gazing fire-wards, and looked doubtfully at a pill-box which he held in his left hand:

"This is the only clue I can possibly obtain. The chemist who made up these pills has kindly put his name and address—in print—on the box. If, then, I go to this chemist, I will be able to find out the name of the dead man—after that the circumstances of his life, and then—well, after all, I may be wrong, and these country bumpkins right. It may be a case of suicide—I suppose, under the circumstances, they could hardly bring in any other verdict, and yet it is so strange. Why should he have poisoned himself with morphia, when he could have done so with an overdose of these pills? Easier death, I dare say. Morphia is a narcotic, and arsenic an irritant. Humph! it's a strange case altogether—very strange. I don't know exactly what to make of it."

He relapsed into silence, slipped the pill-box into his pocket, and taking the cup from the table began to sip his coffee slowly. Coffee—black coffee, hot and strong, as Mr. Fanks was now taking it—clears the brain, and renders it intensely sharp and wakeful; so after a few minutes the detective put down the cup, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out his long legs, and began to think aloud once more, as was his fashion when alone.

"It's a fine profession that of a detective, but one gets tired of commonplace murders; this, however, isn't a commonplace murder. Query. Is it a murder at all? Jury say 'No.' I say 'Yes'—eh! I wonder who is right! Egotism on my part, probably, but I believe in my own idea. Why should a man come down to this out-of-the-way place to die? Why should he take the trouble to explain that he intends to stop here for a week if he intended to commit suicide? No! I can't and won't believe it's suicide. As to that theory of Carr's, that he brought just enough morphia to poison himself. Rubbish! Suicides don't take so much trouble as a rule. My belief," continued Mr. Fanks, reflectively, "my belief is that he took something innocently and it killed him. Now what would he take innocently? These pills, of course! Yet, if they killed him, it would be arsenic, not morphia. Hang it, what the deuce does it all mean?"

There being no answer to this question, he caught his chin between his finger and thumb, staring hard at the fire meanwhile, as if thereby to solve his doubts. A hard case, this Jarlchester Mystery; a difficult case; and yet it fascinated Mr. Fanks by its very difficulty. He was fond of difficulties, this young man. In his childish days, Chinese puzzles—most perplexing of mysteries—had been his delight. As a schoolboy, he adored algebraical problems and newspaper cryptograms, so now in his early manhood he found his true vocation in solving those inexplicable enigmas which the criminal classes, and very often the non-criminal classes—principally the latter—present to the world for solution.

Mr. Fanks was suddenly aroused from his problematical musings by the sudden opening of the door, and on turning his head with a start, saw it was being closed by a tall young man, who immediately afterwards advanced slowly towards the fire.

"As this is the warmest room in the house," said the new-comer, carelessly, "I've ventured to intrude my company upon you for an hour or so."

"Very pleased, indeed," murmured Mr. Fanks, pushing his chair to one side, so as to allow the stranger to have a fair share of the fire. "It's dull work sitting alone."

This movement on the part of Mr. Fanks and the sitting down of the stranger brought both their faces within the mellow radiance of the lamp, whereupon a sudden look of recognition flashed into the eyes of each.

"Roger Axton!" cried the detective, springing to his feet.

"Fanks!" said the other, also rising and cordially clasping the hand held out to him. "My dear old schoolfellow!"

"And your dear old schoolfellow's nickname also," remarked Fanks, as they shook hands heartily. "What a curious coincidence, to be sure! It is only the mountains that never meet."

"Ten years ago," said Axton, resuming his seat with a sigh. "Ten years ago, Octavius!"

"And it seems like yesterday," observed Octavius, smiling. "Strange that I should meet little Axton at Jarlchester, of all places in the world. What brought you here, old boy?"

"My own legs," said Roger, complacently. "I'm in the poet trade, and have been trying to draw inspiration from nature during a walking tour."

"A poet, eh! Yes, I remember your rhapsodies about Shelley and Keats at school. So you've followed in their footsteps, Roger. 'The child's the father of the man.' That's the Bible, isn't it?"

"I've got a hazy idea that Wordsworth said something like it," responded Axton, drily. "Yes, I'm a poet. And you?"

"I'm the prose to your poetry. You study nature, I study man."

"Taken Pope's advice, no doubt. A novelist?"

"No; not a paying line nowadays. Overcrowded."

"A schoolmaster?"

"Worse still. We can't all be Arnolds."

"Let us say a phrenologist?"

"Pooh! do I look like a charlatan?"

"No, indeed, Fanks! Eh, Fanks," repeated Axton, struck with a sudden idea, and pushing his chair away from that of his companion. "Why, you're a detective down here about that—that suicide."

"What wonderful penetration!" said Octavius, laughing. "How did you hit upon that idea, my friend?"

Roger Axton's hand went up to his fair moustache, which hardly concealed the quivering of his lips, and he laughed in an uneasy manner.

"Circumstantial evidence," he said at last, hurriedly. "The barmaid told me that a London detective called Fangs was down here on account of the—the suicide, and allowing for her misuse of the name, and your unexpected presence here, it struck me—"

"That I must be the man," finished Fanks, shooting a keen glance at the somewhat careworn face of his school friend. "Well, you are perfectly right. I am Octavius Fanks, of Scotland Yard, detective, formerly Octavius Rixton, of nowhere in particular, idler. You don't seem to relish the idea of my being a bloodhound of the law."

"I—I—er—well, I certainly don't see why a detective shouldn't be as respectable as any other man. Still—"

"There's a kind of Dr. Fell dislike towards him," responded Octavius, composedly. "Yes, that's true enough, though intensely ridiculous. People always seem to be afraid of a detective. I don't know why, unless, maybe, it's their guilty conscience."

"Their conscience?" faltered Axton, with an obvious effort.

"I said 'their guilty conscience'" corrected Fanks, with emphasis. "I'll tell you all about it, Roger. But first take your face out of the shadow, and let me have a look at you. I want to see how the boy of seventeen looks as the man of seven-and-twenty."

Reluctantly—very reluctantly, Roger Axton did as he was requested, and when the yellow light shone full on his face, the detective stared steadily at him, with the keen look of one accustomed to read every line, every wrinkle, every light, every shadow on the features of his fellow-men, and skilled to understand the meanings thereof.

It was a handsome young face of the fresh-coloured Saxon type, but just now looked strangely haggard and careworn. Dark circles under the bright blue eyes, the complexion faded from healthy hues to a dull unnatural white; and the yellow hair tossed in careless disorder from off the high forehead, whereon deep lines between the arched eyebrows betrayed vexation or secret trouble—perhaps both. A face that should have worn a merry smile, but did not; lips that should have shown the white teeth in a happy laugh, but did not; eyes that should have burned with poetic fire, with jocund good-humour, with love fire, but did not. No! this face that was young, and should have looked young, bore the impress of a disturbed mind, of a spirit ill at ease, and the keen-eyed detective, withdrawing his gaze with a sigh from the face, let it rest on the figure of Roger Axton.

No effeminacy there, in spite of the girlish delicacy of the face and the gentle look in the blue eyes. On the contrary, a stalwart, muscular frame, well developed, and heavily knit. Plenty of bone, and flesh, and muscle, over six feet in height, an undefinable look of latent strength, of easy consciousness of power. Yes, Roger Axton was not an antagonist to be despised, and looked more like a fighting man-at-arms than a peaceful poet.

He bore the scrutiny of Mr. Fanks, however, with obvious discomposure, and the hand holding the well-worn briar-root, which he was filling from his tobacco-pouch, trembled slightly in spite of all his efforts to steady the muscles.

"Well!" he said at length, striking a match, "I see you bring your detective habits into private life, which must be pleasant for your friends. May I ask if you are satisfied?"

"The face," observed Octavius, leisurely waving his hand to disperse the smoke-clouds rolling from the briar-root of his companion, "the face is not that of a happy man!"

"It would be very curious if it was," replied Axton, sulkily, "seeing that the owner is not happy."

"Youth, good looks, genius, health," said Fanks, reflectively. "With all these you ought to be happy, Roger."

"No doubt! But what I ought to be and what I am, are two very different things."

"Judging by your face, they certainly are," retorted the detective, drily; "but what is the matter with you, grumbler? Are you hard up?"

"No! I have a sufficiency of this world's goods."

"The critics have been abusing your last poems, perhaps?"

"Pooh! I'm used to that."

"Ah! then there's only one reason left. You are in love?"

"True, oh king," said Roger, drawing hard at his pipe, "I am in love."

"Tell me all about it," said Fanks, curling himself up luxuriously in his chair. "I adore love confidences. When you were a small nuisance at school, you told me all your troubles, and I consoled you. Do so now, and—"

"No! no!" cried Axton, suddenly, "you can't console me now. No one can do that."

"That remains to be seen," said Fanks, smiling. "Come now, Roger, tell me your trouble. Though we have been parted for ten years, I have often thought of my school friend. Unburden your heart to me; it will relieve your mind if it does nothing else."

Thus adjured, Roger brightened up, and settling himself comfortably in his chair, put his feet against the mantelpiece, blew a thick cloud of smoke, and began to tell his story.

"I'm afraid my story hasn't the merit of novelty," he said, candidly. "After you left school I remained, as you know. Then my parents died—within a few months of each other—and I found myself a well-provided orphan. When I say well-provided, I mean that I had an income of three hundred a year, and one can always live comfortably on six pounds a week, if not extravagant. Being thus independent of the world, the flesh, and the devil, meaning thereby the employer, the publisher, and the critic, I went in for writing poetry. It didn't pay, of course, this being the age of sensational literature; but verse manufacturing amused me, and I wandered all over England and the Continent in a desultory sort of way. A kind of grand tour in the poet line, midway between the poverty of Goldsmith and the luxury of Byron. I published a book of poems and the critics abused it—found plenty of faults and no virtues. Well, I was wrathful at this new massacre of the literary innocents and fled to the land of Egypt—in plain English I went down to Ventnor in the Isle of Wight. There I met Her—"

"With a large 'H,' of course," murmured Mr. Fanks, sympathetically.

"For the second time. I then—"

"Ah! May I ask where you met her for the first time?"

"Oh, in some other place," said Roger, evasively; "but that's got nothing to do with the subject. The first time we met—well, it was the first time."

"I didn't think it was the second, fond lover. But I understand the second time was the critical one."

"Exactly! It was last August," said Axton, speaking rapidly, so as to give Fanks no further opportunity of interrupting. "I was, as I have stated, at Ventnor, with the idea of writing a drama—Shakespearean, of course—Elizabethan style, you understand, with a dash of modern cynicism, and fin de siècle flippancy in it. Wandering about Ventnor, I came across Judith Varlins."

"For the second time of asking—I mean meeting," interpolated Fanks, lightly. "So her name was Judith. Heroic name, suggestive of queenly woman, dark-browed Cleopatra, and all that sort of thing. I picture to myself a grand Semiramis."

Roger shook his head.

"No; she was not a handsome woman. Tall, graceful, dark-browed, if you like, but not pretty."

"Pshaw! who ever called regal Semiramis pretty? Such a weak adjective. But I guess your meaning. Her mind was more beautiful than her face."

"If her face had been as beautiful as her mind, sir," replied Axton, in the Johnsonian style, "she would have been the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Like Dulcinea, eh, Don Quixote Roger? Well; and you met often—juxtaposition is fatal—and love sprang up like Jonah's gourd in one night."

"No; she was not a woman to be lightly won. Judith had with her a cousin—a pretty, golden-haired damsel, whom she worshipped."

"Oh! had you met Golden-hair before?"

"Yes; but I didn't take much notice of her."

"Of course. Preferred brunette to blonde!"

"Decidedly. Well, Florry Marson—"

"The blue-eyed darling?"

"Yes. Florry Marson was a foolish, frivolous little thing, who had been confided to Judith's care by her dead mother."

"Whose dead mother, Florry's or Judith's?" asked Fanks, lightly.

"Florry's, of course," replied Roger, impatiently; "and Judith looked after her like the apple of her eye, though I'm afraid she had rather a hard task, for Miss Marson was one of those irritating girls who did all manner of things without thinking. She was engaged to marry a man called Spolger."

"Anything to do with 'Spolger's Soother, a Good Night's Rest'?"

"Yes; he's the owner."

"Oh! and frivolous Florry didn't like him."

"How do you know?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.

"Because I've seen Spolger's Soother, and he's not pretty enough for such an empty-headed minx as you describe Miss Marson."

"You are right. She was engaged to him by her father's desire, but she loved a scamp—good-looking, of course, with no money, and had been exiled to Ventnor to escape him."

"Eh! It's quite a romance," said Fanks, gaily. "What was the scamp's name?"

Roger fidgeted in his chair before replying, which action did not escape the lynx eyes of Mr. Fanks, who said nothing, but waited.

"I don't know," said Roger, turning away his head.

"That's a lie," thought Octavius, as he saw the manner in which Mr. Axton replied to a seemingly simple question. "Queer! Why should he tell me such a useless lie?"

"I don't know anything about the scamp," went on Axton, hurriedly; "but he is the cause of all my unhappiness."

"How so?"

"Because Judith—Miss Varlins—refused to marry me on his account."

"What! she loved him also. Fascinating scamp!"

"I don't know if she loved him exactly," said Axton, in a musing tone. "The reason she gave me for her rejection of my proposal was that she could not leave her cousin Florence; but she seemed strangely moved when she spoke of—of Florry's lover."

"Don't you remember his name?" asked Fanks, noticing the momentary hesitation.

"No, I don't," replied Roger, angrily. "Why do you keep asking me that question?"

"Oh, nothing," said Octavius, quietly; "only I thought that as these two girls had told you so much about themselves, they might have told you more."

"Judith Varlins is a very reserved woman."

"And Miss Marson?"

"I didn't see much of her," answered Roger, moodily, "nor did I wish to—a frivolous little minx, who came between me and my happiness. Well, there's nothing more to tell. After my rejection I left Ventnor for London, and ultimately came down here on a walking tour."

"You've not seen Miss Varlins since, I suppose?"

Again Roger turned away his head, and again the action is noted by Mr. Fanks.

"No," replied Axton, in a low voice. "I—I have not seen her since."

"Lie number two," thought Octavius, wonderingly. "What does it all mean? Do you correspond with her?" he asked, aloud.

"No! Confound it, Fanks, don't put me in the witness-box," cried Roger, rising to his feet.

"I beg your pardon, old fellow," said Octavius, meekly, "it's a habit I've got. A very bad one, I'm afraid. Well, I hope things will go well with you and the marriage with Miss Varlins will take place."

Roger, who was walking rapidly up and down the long room, now vanishing into the chill shadow, anon emerging into the warm lamp-light, stopped at the sound of the name and flung up his arms with a low cry of anguish.

"Never! never!" he cried bitterly, "I shall never marry her."

"Poor old chap, you do seem to be hard hit," said Octavius, sympathetically, "but hope for the best. Florry will marry her patent medicine man, and forget the scamp. Judith will marry you and forget Florry, so things will come out all straight in the long run."

"I hope so," said Axton, resuming his seat, rather ashamed of his emotion; "but they don't look very promising at present. Ah, well, it's no use fighting Destiny. Do you remember the grim view old Sophocles takes of that deity? A classic Juggernaut, crushing all who oppose her. I trust I won't be one of her victims, but I'm doubtful. However, now I've told you my story, what about your own?"

"Mine," said Mr. Fanks, lightly; "bless you, Roger, I'm like Canning's knife-grinder, I've got none to tell. As you know, I'm the eighth son of an impoverished country gentleman, hence my name, Octavius. All my brothers were put into the army, the navy, the Church, and all that sort of thing, so when my turn came to make a début in life there was nothing left for me to do. My father, at his wits' end, suggested the colonies, that refuge for destitute younger sons, but I didn't care about turning digger or sheep farmer, and positively refused to be exiled. I came up to London to look round, and made my choice. Being fond of puzzles and cryptograms, I thought I would turn my ingenuity in unravelling enigmas to practical account, and became a detective. The family cast me off; however, I didn't mind that. I left off the name of Rixton and took that of Fanks—my old school name, you remember—so I didn't disgrace the Rixtons of Derbyshire. Being a gentleman doesn't mean bread and butter in these democratic days; and though my pedigree's as long as the tail of a kite, it was quite as useless in a commercial sense. Besides, the detective business is just as honourable as any other, and also very exciting, so I don't regret having gone in for it. I get well paid also, and the life suits me."

"Is your father reconciled to you yet?"

"Oh, yes, in a sort of a way; but the Vidocq business sticks in his throat and he can't swallow it. However, I visit the paternal acres sometimes, and no one thinks Octavius Rixton, gentleman, has anything to do with Octavius Fanks, detective."

"And you like your profession?"

"I adore it. Mystery has a wonderful charm for human nature, and there's a marvellous fascination in joining together a criminal puzzle. I've had all kinds of queer cases through my hands dealing with the seamy side of humanity, and have been uniformly successful with the lot. This affair, however, puzzles me dreadfully."

"It's a horrible thing," said Roger, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. "I went for a long walk to-day so as to avoid the inquest."

"Ah, you poets have not got strong nerves."

"I'm afraid not. I hear the verdict was suicide."

"Yes, and I don't agree with the verdict."

Roger turned round quickly, and looked straight at his companion, who was staring absently at the fire.

"Indeed," he said at length. "Why not?"

"Eh! Oh, I don't know; I've got my reasons," replied Fanks, coolly, evidently not wishing to continue the subject. "By the way, how long are you going to stop here?"

"Just for to-night; I'm off to-morrow."

"So am I. London?"

"No, I'm going to continue my walking tour."

"Ah, sly dog," cried Fanks, gaily, "I understand. You are going to look up Miss Varlins again."

Roger bit his nether lip hard, and replied, coldly, in a somewhat sober fashion, neither affirming nor denying the insinuation:

"I won't find her down here at all events."

"Oh! Then she's still at Ventnor?"

"No! She and Miss Marson have gone home."

"Really! And where is home?"

"My dear Fanks, your cross-examination is most trying."

"I beg your pardon," said Octavius, ceremoniously, "I was not aware I had asked an impertinent question."

"Nor have you, my dear fellow," cried Axton, cordially. "Don't mind my bad temper, I can't help it. My nerves are all unstrung with this horrible business of the inquest. There's no reason why I should not tell you where Miss Varlins lives."

"Oh, never mind," said Fanks, a trifle coldly; "I don't want to know."

"Don't get offended at nothing, Octavius," replied Roger, in an injured tone; "I will tell you if it's only to make amends for my rudeness. Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields."

The detective jumped to his feet with a sudden ejaculation, at which Axton also arose, looking pale and alarmed.

"What's the matter, Fanks?" he asked, hurriedly.

For answer, Octavius Fanks drew the pill-box from his pocket, and placing it silently on the table, pointed to the inscription on the lid:

"Wosk & Co.
Chemists, Ironfields."

[Chapter 3]

Purely Theoretical

Roger Axton stood looking at the pill-box on the table, and Octavius Fanks stood looking at Roger Axton, the former lost in a fit of painful musing (evident from his pale face, his twitching lips, his startled expression), the latter keenly observant, according to his usual habits. At last Roger with a deep sigh drew his hand across his brow and resumed his seat, while Mr. Fanks, picking up the pill-box, gave it a cheerful rattle as he followed his example.

"What a strange coincidence," he said, thoughtfully; "but I'm not astonished. This sort of thing occurs in real life as well as in novels. 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' I don't know who first made that remark, but he was a wise man, you may depend, and wonderfully observant of events before he crystallised his experience in those five words."

"It certainly is curious," replied Roger, absently, as though he were thinking of something else. "Fancy finding the name of the town where She—"

"With a large S, of course."

"Where she lives, printed on a pill-box," finished Roger, and then, after a pause: "What do you think of it, Fanks?"

"Think!" repeated Octavius, thoughtfully. "Oh, I think it is the clue to the whole mystery."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.

"What I say," retorted Fanks, twirling the pill-box round and round. "It's not difficult of comprehension. Man, name unknown, comes down here, and dies shortly after his arrival. Inquest; verdict, suicide! Fiddle-de-dee! Murder! And this pill-box is the first link in the chain that will bind the criminal. By the way," said Octavius, suddenly struck with a new idea, "how long have you been at Jarlchester?"

"A week."

"Oh! Then you were here when the man died?"

"I was."

"Humph! Excuse my witness-box manner!"

"Don't apologise," said Roger, quietly. "Cross-examine me as much as you like. It seems second nature with detectives to suspect every one."

"Suspect!" repeated Octavius, in an injured tone. "Good heavens, Axton, what are you talking about? I'd as soon think of suspecting myself, you peppery young ass. But I'm anxious to find out all about this affair, and naturally ask the people who lived under the same roof as the dead man. You are one of the people, so I ask you."

"Ask me what?"

"Oh, several things."

"Well, go on; but I warn you I know nothing," said Roger, gloomily.

"I tell you what, young man," observed Mr. Fanks, sententiously, "you need shaking up a bit. This love affair has made you view all things in a most bilious fashion. An overdose of love, and poetry, and solitude incapacitates a human being for enjoying life, so if you are wise—which I beg leave to doubt—you will brace up your nerves by helping me to find out this mystery."

"I'm afraid I'd make a sorry detective, Octavius."

"That remains to be proved. See here, old boy. I was called down here about this case, and as the wiseacres of Jarlchester have settled it to their own satisfaction that there is—to their minds—no more need for my services, I am discharged—dismissed—turned out by Jarlchester & Co.; but as I don't often get such a clever case to look after, I'm going to find out the whole affair for my own pleasure."

"It seems a disease with you, this insatiable curiosity to find out things."

"Ay, that it is. We call it detective fever. Join me in this case, and you'll find yourself suffering from the disease in a wonderfully short space of time."

"No, thank you; I prefer my freedom."

"And your idleness! Well, go your own way, Roger. If you won't take the medicine I prescribe, you certainly won't be cured. Unrequited love will lie heavy on your heart, and your health and work will suffer in consequence. Both will be dull, and between doctors and critics you will have a high old time of it, dear boy."

"What nonsense you do talk!" said Roger, fretfully.

"Eh! do you think so? Perhaps I'm like Touchstone, and use my folly as a stalking-horse behind which to shoot my wit. I'm not sure if I'm quoting rightly, but the moral is apparent. However, all this is not to the point—to my point, I mean—and if you have not got detective fever I have, so I will use you as a medicine to allay the disease."

"Fire away, old fellow," said Axton, turning his chair half round so as to place his tell-tale face in the shadow, thereby rendering it undecipherable to Fanks; "I'm all attention."

Octavius at once produced his secretive little note-book and vicious little pencil, which latter assumed dramatic significance in the nervous fingers that held it.

"I'm ready," said Fanks, letting his pencil-point jest on a clean white page. "Question first: Did you know this dead man?"

"Good heavens, no. I don't even know his name nor his appearance."

"You have never seen him?"

"How could I have seen him? I am exploring the neighbourhood, and generally start on my travels in the morning early and return late. This man arrived at five, went to bed at nine, and as I didn't come back till ten o'clock I didn't see him on that night; next morning he was dead."

"Did you not see the corpse?"

"No," said Roger, with a shudder, "I don't care for such 'wormy circumstance.'"

"Wormy circumstance is good," remarked Fanks, approvingly. "Keats, I think. Yes, I thought so. I see you don't care for horrors. You are not of the Poe-Baudelaire school of grave-digging, corpse-craving poesy."

"Hardly! I don't believe in going to the gutter for inspiration."

"Ah! now you are thinking of MM. Zola and Gondrecourt, my friend; but, dear me, how one thing does lead to another. We are discussing literature instead of murder. Let us return to our first loves. Why didn't you attend the inquest?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"An all-sufficient reason, indeed," remarked Mr. Fanks, drily, making digs at his book with the pencil. "I wonder you weren't called as a witness."

"No necessity. I know nothing of the affair."

"Absolutely nothing?" (interrogative).

"Absolutely nothing." (decisive).

Mr. Fanks twirled his vicious little pencil in his fingers, closed his secretive little book with a snap, and replaced them both in his pocket with a sigh.

"You are a most unsatisfactory medicine, my dear Roger. You have done nothing to cure my detective fever."

"Am I so bad as that? Come now, I'll tell you one thing: I slept in the room next to that of the dead man."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"And you heard nothing on that night!"

"If you walked twenty miles during the day, Fanks, you would have been too tired to listen for the sounds of a possible murder."

"Yes, yes, of course. What a pity we can't look twenty-four hours ahead of things; it would save such a lot of trouble."

"And prevent such a lot of murders. If such prophetic power were given to humanity, I'm afraid your occupation would be gone."

"Othello's remark! yes, of course; but I'm sorry you slept so soundly on that night, as some one might have been in the dead man's room."

"Why do you think so?" asked Roger, quickly.

"Because the door was slightly ajar," replied Fanks, sagaciously; "a nervous man would not have slept with his door like that. You're sure you heard nothing?"

"Quite sure."

"It's a pity—a great pity. By the way, have you ever been to Ironfields?"

Roger hesitated, turned uneasily in his chair, and at last blurted out:

"No; I have never been to Ironfields."

"Humph!" said Fanks, looking doubtfully at him. "I thought you might have met Miss Varlins there for the first time."

"So I might," replied Roger, equably; "at the same time I might have met her in London."

"So you don't know anything about Ironfields."

"Only that it is a manufacturing town given over to the domination of foundries and millionaires in the iron interest; to me it is simply a geographical expression."

"I plead guilty to the same state of ignorance, but I will shortly be wiser, because I am going down to Ironfields."

"What for?" demanded Roger, with a start.

"I shouldn't let you into the secrets of the prison house," said Mr. Fanks, severely; "but as you are 'mine own familiar friend'—Shakespeare again, ubiquitous poet well, as you are mine own familiar friend, I don't mind telling you in confidence, I'm going down to see Wosk & Co., of Ironfields, Chemists."

"And your object?"

"Is to find out the name of the gentleman who bought those pills."

"I don't see what good that will do."

"Blind, quite blind," said Octavius, nodding his head mournfully. "I will unfold myself—the immortal bard for the third time. When I find out the name of the deceased, which I can do through that pill-box, I will be able to find out all about his antecedents. Satisfied on that point, it is possible, nay probable, that I may find some one who has ill-feelings towards him."

"And therefore poisons him in Jarlchester while they remain at Ironfields," said Roger, ironically. "I congratulate you on your clear-sightedness."

"It's puzzling, certainly, very puzzling," replied Fanks, rubbing his head with an air of vexation. "I've got absolutely nothing to work on."

"And are going to work on it. Pish! sandy foundations."

"Now look here, Roger," cried the detective, with great energy, "let us survey this case from a common-sense point of view. This man couldn't have come down to Jarlchester to commit suicide; he could have done that at Ironfields."

"Perhaps he wanted to spare his friends—if he had any—the pain of knowing that he died by his own hand."

"Rubbish! Suicides are not so considerate, as a rule. They generally make away with themselves in a most public manner, so as to draw attention to their wrongs. No, I can't and won't believe that this man, who gave no hint of wishing to die, came down here to do so."

"Then if he did not kill himself, who did?"

"Ah, that's what I've got to find out."

"Yes, and what if you don't find out."

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Murder will out. Clever remark that. But to continue: I always look on both sides of the question. It may be a case of suicide."

"It is a case of suicide. I believe the jury are right," said Roger, firmly.

"You seem very certain about it," remarked Fanks, a trifle annoyed.

"I only judge from what I have heard."

"Rumour, mere rumour."

"Not at all. Facts, my friend, facts. I allude to the evidence at the inquest."

Octavius made no reply at first, but jumping up from his chair, began to walk to and fro with a frown on his face.

"I dare say you're right," he said, at length; "taking the evidence as a whole, I suppose the jury could only bring in a verdict of suicide. No one could have poisoned him. No one here knew him, therefore had no reason to get rid of him. He took that morphia, opium, or whatever it was, sure enough, and I firmly believe of his own free will. Judging from that theory, it looks decidedly like suicide; but then, again, he may have taken the morphia, not knowing it was poison. It could not have been the pills, for they only contain arsenic. He might certainly have taken morphia in order to get to sleep, as from all accounts he suffered from insomnia—nerves, I suppose. But then some portion of what he took would have been found, and if not that, then the bottle that held the drug or sleeping draught; but nothing was found, absolutely nothing. He is discovered dead from an overdose of morphia, and no traces of morphia—bottle or otherwise—are found in his room. If it was suicide, he would not have taken such precautions, seeing he had nothing to gain by concealing the mode of his death. If it was murder, some one must have administered it to him under the guise of a harmless drug; but then no one here knew him, so no one could have done so. You see, therefore, my dear Roger, from this statement of the case, that I am absolutely at a stand still."

"Yes, I think you can do nothing, so your best plan is to accept the verdict of suicide, and forget all about it."

"And this pill-box?"

"Well, you gain nothing from that except the name of the place where the dead man bought it. If you go to the chemist you will find out his name, certainly."

"And the circumstances of his life also. You forget that."

"No, I don't. But such discovery will hardly account for his murder here. If you find out from your inquiries at Ironfields that the dead man had an enemy, you will have to prove how that enemy came down here and secretly poisoned him. Judging from all the evidence, there is no trace of poison left behind, no one has been staying in this inn except myself, so I really don't see how you are going to bring the crime home to any particular person."

Having finished this speech, Roger arose to his feet with a yawn, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the mantelpiece.

"Where are you going?" asked Fanks, stopping in his walk.

"To bed, of course. I've had a long day."

"You continue your walking tour to-morrow?"

"Yes. I start at ten o'clock. And you?"

"I am going down to Ironfields."

"On a wild-goose chase."

"That remains to be proved," retorted Fanks, grimly.

"I'm certain of it, so your wisest plan is to accept the inevitable and give this case up," replied Axton, holding out his hand. "Good night."

"Good night, old boy," said Octavius, cordially. "I'm very pleased to meet you again. By the way, don't let us lose sight of one another. My address is Scotland Yard—my Fanks address, of course. And yours?"

"Temple Chambers, Fleet Street."

Out came Mr. Fanks' secretive little note-book, in which, he wrote down the address with a gay laugh.

"Ha! ha! Like all literary men, you start with the law and leave it for the profits."

"Of poetry. Pshaw!"

"Eh, who knows? Every scribbler carries the Laureate-ship in his brain. By the way, if I see Miss Varlins at Ironfields, shall I give her any message?"

"No; she won't have anything to do with me," replied Roger, dismally. "I've no doubt I'll get married some day, but it won't be to Judith Varlins."

"Ardent lover!" said Fanks, laughing. "Well, good night, and pleasant dreams."

"With that body upstairs. Ugh!" cried Roger Axton, and vanished with a shudder.

Mr. Fanks stood beside the dying fire, leaning his two elbows on the mantelpiece, and thinking deeply.

"He's very much altered," he thought, drearily. "Not the bright boy of ten years ago. How trouble does change a man, and love also! I'll make a point of seeing Miss Varlins when I go down to Ironfields. Rather a dismal love story, but what the devil did he tell me two lies for?"

He left the room, took his candle from Miss Chickles, and returned to bed. As he closed the door of his room, his thoughts reverted to Roger Axton once more.

"He told me two deliberate lies," he thought, with a puzzled expression on his face. "I could see that by his face, or, rather, his manner. Humph! I don't like this."

Having placed the candle on the dressing-table, Mr. Fanks sat down, and having produced his secretive note-book, proceeded to make therein a memorandum (in shorthand) of his conversation with Axton.

No reason for doing so; certainly not. Still, name on pill-box, Ironfields; residence of Judith Varlins, Ironfields. Curious coincidence—very. Nothing may come of it. Highly improbable anything could come of it. Still, those few lines of queer signs, recording an unimportant conversation, may be of use in the future. Who knows? Ah, who, indeed? There's a good deal in chance, and fate sometimes puts a thread into our hands which conducts through tangled labyrinths to unknown issues.

"Two lies," said Mr. Fanks for the third time, as he rolled himself up in the bed-clothes and blew out the candle. "He hadn't seen her since Ventnor. He hadn't heard from her since Ventnor. Wonderful self-denial for a young man in love. I'd like to know more about Roger's little romance."

Extracts from a Detective's Note-Book

"Can't make Axton out . . . Most curious conversation—inquisitive on my part, evasive on his . . . He told me two lies . . . In fact, during the whole conversation he seemed to be on his guard. . . . I don't like the look of things . . . I have no right to pry into Axton's affairs, but I can't understand his denials—denials which I could tell from his manner were false . . . Queer thing about Ironfields . . . The dead man came from Ironfields . . . Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields . . . Qy. Can there be any connection between the deceased and Miss Varlins? . . . Impossible, and yet it's very strange . . . I don't like that open door either . . . That is extraordinary . . . Then the letter written by the deceased . . . I asked at the post office here about it . . . They could tell me nothing . . . I wonder to whom that letter was sent? . . . I think it's the key to the whole affair . . . Can Roger Axton be keeping anything from me? . . . Did he know the dead man? . . . I am afraid to answer these questions . . . Well, I'll go down to Ironfields and find out all about the dead man . . . Perhaps my inquiries will lead me to Miss Varlins . . . But no, there can be no connection, and yet I doubt Roger . . . I mistrust him . . . I don't like his manner . . . his evasive replies . . . And then he's connected with Miss Varlins—she is connected with Ironfields . . . That is connected with the deceased . . . All links in a chain . . . Most extraordinary.

"Mem.—To go at once to Ironfields."

[Chapter 4]

The Evidence of the Chemist's Assistant

Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it could—according to the minds of its inhabitants—easily dispense with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted, gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of. Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of Time—poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime, and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.

The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women, with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill, unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage, or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation, this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed—for the capitalists.

When it rained—which it did frequently—Ironfields was sloppy, and when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.

The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly, clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.

On one side of Ironfields, however, Nature had made a feeble attempt to assert herself, but then it was in a queer little village which had been the germ from whence arose this noisy town. In the old days the queer little village had stood amid green fields beside a sparkling river; but now the fields had disappeared, the sparkling river had turned to a dull, muddy stream, and the little village was improved out of all recognition. Like Frankenstein, it had created a monster which dominated it entirely, which took away even its name and reduced it from a quaint, pretty place, redolent of pastoral joys, to a dull little suburb, mostly inhabited by poor people. True, beyond stood the mansions of the Ironfields millionaires, glaring and unpicturesque, in equally glaring gardens laid out with mathematical accuracy; but the upper ten merely drove through the village on their way to these Brummagem palaces, and did not acknowledge its existence in any way. Yet a good many of their progenitors had lived in the dull suburb before Ironfields was Ironfields, but they forgot all about that in the enjoyment of their new-found splendours, and the miserable village was now a kind of poor relation, unrecognised, uncared for, and very much despised.

In the principal street, narrow and winding, with old houses on either side, standing like dismal ghosts of the past, was the chemist's shop, a brand-new place, with plate-glass windows, and the name, "Wosk & Co.," in bright gold letters on a bright blue ground. Behind the plate-glass windows appeared huge bottles containing liquids red, and yellow, and green in colour, which threw demoniacal reflections on the faces of passers-by at night, when the gas flared behind them. All kinds of patent medicines were there displayed to the best advantage; bottles of tooth-brushes, cakes of Pears' soap, phials of queer shape and wondrous virtue, sponges, jars of leeches, queer-looking pipes compounded of glass and india-rubber tubing, packets of fly-exterminators, and various other strange things pertaining to the trade, all calling attention to their various excellencies in neat little printed leaflets scattered promiscuously throughout.

Within, a shining counter of mahogany laden with cures for the various ills which flesh is heir to; and at the far end, a neat little glass screen with a gas-jet on top, above which could be seen the gray-black head of Mr. Wosk and the smooth red head of Mr. Wosk's assistant.

Mr. Wosk (who was also the Co.) was a slender, serious man, always clothed in black, with a sedate, black-bearded countenance, a habit of washing his hands with invisible soap and water, and a rasping little cough, which he introduced into his conversation at inopportune moments. He would have made an excellent undertaker, an ideal mute, for his cast of countenance was undeniably mournful, but Fate had fitted this round peg of an undertaker into the square hole of a chemist in a fit of perverse anger. He bore up, however, against his uncongenial situation with dreary resignation, and dispensed his own medicines with an air of saying, "I hope it will do you good, but I'm afraid it won't." He was the pillar of the Church in a small way, and stole round the chapel on Sundays with the plate in a melancholy fashion, as if he was asking some good Christian to put some food on the plate and despaired of getting it. Ebenezer was his name, and his wife, an acidulated lady of uncertain age, ruled him with a rod of iron, perhaps from the fact that she had no children over whom to domineer.

Mrs. Wosk, however, could not rule the assistant, much as she desired to do so. Not that he made any show of opposition, but always twisted this way and turned that in an eel-like fashion until she did not know quite where to have him. In fact, the assistant ruled Mrs. Wosk (of which rule she had a kind of uneasy consciousness), and as Mrs. Wosk ruled Mr. Wosk, including the Co., M. Jules Guinaud may have been said to have ruled the whole household.

A hard name to pronounce, especially in Ironfields, where French was in the main an unknown tongue, so suburban Ironfields, by common consent, forgot the surname of the assistant, and called him, in friendly fashion, Munseer Joolees, by which appellation he was known for a considerable time. Mrs. Wosk, however, who meddled a good deal with the shop and saw a good deal of the assistant, being learned in Biblical lore (as the wife of a deacon should be), found a certain resemblance suggested by the name and appearance of the assistant between Munseer Joolees and Judas Iscariot, whereupon, with virulent wit, she christened him by the latter name, and Monsieur Joolees became widely known as Monsieur Judas, which name pleased the Ironfields worthies, being easy to pronounce and containing a certain epigrammatic flavour.

The name suited him, too, this slender, undersized man with the stealthy step of a cat; the unsteady greenish eyes that appeared to see nothing, yet took in everything; the smooth, shining red hair plastered tightly down on his egg-shaped skull; and the delicate, pink and white-complexioned, hairless face that bore the impress of a kind of evil beauty—yes, the name suited him admirably, and as he took no exception to it, being in suburban Ironfields opinion an atheist, and therefore ignorant of the Biblical significance of the title, nobody thought of addressing him by any other.

He spoke English moderately well, in a soft, sibilant voice with a foreign accent, and sometimes used French words, which were Greek to all around him. Expressive, too, in a pantomimic way, with his habit of shrugging his sloping shoulders, his method of waving his slim white hands when in conversation, and a certain talent in using his eyes to convey his meaning. Lids drooping downwards, "I listen humbly to your words of wisdom, monsieur." Suddenly raising them so as to display full optic, "Yes, you may look at me; I am a most guileless person." Narrowing to a mere slit, like the pupil of a cat's eye, "Beware, I am dangerous," and so forth, all of which, in conjunction with the aforesaid shrugs and pantomimic action of his hands, made the conversation of Monsieur Judas very intelligible indeed, in spite of his foreign accent and French observations.

It was raining on this particular morning—seasonable weather, of course; but as far as rain went, all the months were the same in Ironfields, and a thick, black fog pervaded the atmosphere. A cold, clammy fog, with a sooty flavour, that crept slowly through the streets and into the houses, like a wounded snake dragging itself along. Here and there pedestrians looming large in the opaque cloud like gigantic apparitions, gas-lamps flaring drearily in the thick air, cabs and carts and carriages all moving cautiously along like endless funerals. And only two o'clock in the afternoon. Surely the darkness which spread over the land of Egypt could be no worse than this; nay, perhaps it was better, Egypt being tropical and lacking the chill, unwholesome moisture which permeated the air, wrapping the dingy houses, the noisy foundries, and the cheerless streets in a dull, sodden pall.

Gas glared in the shop of Wosk & Co., behind the glass doors, which kept out as much of the fog as they were able—gas which gave forth a dim, yellow light to Mr. Wosk behind the screen, looking over prescriptions, and to Monsieur Judas at the counter making up neat packages of medicine bottles. At the little window at the back which looked into the Wosk dwelling-house, an occasional vision of Mrs. Wosk's head appeared like that of a cross cherub, keeping her eye on chemist and assistant.

"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to be all the places to-day."

"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a contemplative fashion. "Good for—ahem!—good for business—that is, business in our line—ahem!"

"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman, raising his eyebrows, "and for de—what you call de coffins man. L'homme des funerailles."

"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker—not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not—ahem—correct Anglo-Saxon—is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention—ahem—in the person of ourselves is better than—ahem—dear me—I don't think the remark is app—ahem—applicable."

At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.

"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name—ahem—my name, sir, is in front of the—the shop, sir."

"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."

"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.

Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.

"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"

"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue.

His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever—too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds.

The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas:

"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."

The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:

"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."

There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another.

Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion:

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.

"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."

"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."

"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."

The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.

"I'm afraid—ahem—really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely—ahem—but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the—ahem—I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."

"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.

"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.

"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."

"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"

"No; I want to know the gentleman's name."

"An' for wy, monsieur?"

"Never you mind," retorted Octavius, coolly; "you do what you're asked, my good fellow."

The "good fellow" gave Mr. Fanks an ugly look; but in another moment was bland and smiling as ever. Mr. Wosk (beckoned by the cherub's head) had gone into the back premises, so the two men were quite alone, of which circumstance Mr. Fanks took advantage by speaking to Monsieur Judas in French, in order to understand him better.

Translated, the conversation (guarded on both sides by mutual suspicion) was as follows:

"Will monsieur permit me to ask him a few questions? Otherwise," said Judas, with a shrug, "I cannot hope to find the name monsieur requires."

"Ask whatever questions you like."

"Does monsieur know when the gentleman left this town?"

Mr. Fanks made a rapid calculation, and answered promptly: "I'm not quite sure; after the 6th and before the 13th of the present month. But your best plan will be to go back from the 13th of November."

"Certainly, monsieur."

Judas disappeared behind the neat screen, and rapidly turned up the order book beginning with the 13th of November, as directed.

"They are tonic pills, I see, monsieur," he called out.

"Yes, it is marked on the box."

In another moment Fanks heard an exclamation of surprise behind the screen, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Judas emerged, carrying the order book with him. He was visibly agitated, and his lean hands trembled as he placed the book on the counter.

"What is the matter?" asked Fanks, suspiciously, rising to his feet.

"I will explain to monsieur later on," said Judas, with a sickly smile. "At present, however, here is what you want. These pills were made up for Monsieur Sebastian Melstane."

"Sebastian Melstane," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "Oh, that was his name."

"Yes, Sebastian Melstane," said Judas, slowly. "He bought these pills on the 11th of November, and went down to Jarlchester the next day."

"How do you know he went to Jarlchester?" asked Fanks, considerably startled.

"Because I know Sebastian Melstane, monsieur. We lodged at the same pension. He makes me the confidence that he was going to that place, and, I believe, took these pills with him. Now you have the box, but my friend, where is he?"

Monsieur Judas threw out his hands with a fine dramatic gesture, and fixed his crafty eyes on the impassive face of the detective.

"Do you read the papers?" asked Octavius, with great deliberation.

"Yes; but I read English so bad."

"Get some one to translate for you, then," said Fanks, coolly, "and you will see that an unknown man committed suicide at Jarlchester. That man was Sebastian Melstane."

"Gave himself the death?"

"Yes; read the papers. By the way, Monsieur Judas that is your name, I believe—as you knew Sebastian Melstane, I may want to ask you some questions about him."

Monsieur Judas pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it to Fanks with a flourish.

"My name, monsieur—my habitation, monsieur! If monsieur will do me the honour to call at my pension, I will tell him whatever he desires to know."

"Humph! I'm afraid that's beyond your power, M. Guinaud," replied Fanks, glancing at the card. "However, I'll call round this evening at eight o'clock; but at present I want to know about these pills."

"They were bought by my friend on the 11th," said Judas, showing the entry. "Behold, monsieur, the book speaks it."

"Who signed the prescription?"

"A doctor, monsieur, a doctor. I cannot say the name, it is hard for my tongue; but, monsieur"—struck with a sudden idea—"you shall see his own writing."

Once more he vanished behind the screen, and shortly afterwards reappeared with a sheet of note-paper, which he placed before Octavius.

"There it is, monsieur."

Fanks took up the paper, and read as follows:

R. Acid. Arsen. gi.
Pulv. Glycyrrh. gr. xv.
Ext. Glycyrrh. gr. xxx.
Misce et divide in pilule.
No. XII.
Sig. Tonic pills.
One to be taken before retiring nightly.
Jacob Japix, M.D.

"I see you made up twelve pills," said Fanks, after he had perused this document.

"Yes, monsieur, twelve pills. It is the usual number." Octavius looked thoughtful for a moment, then, turning his back on the assistant, walked to the door, where he stood gazing out at the fog, and thinking deeply in this fashion: "There were twelve pills in the box when Melstane bought it on the 11th of this month. According to his statement to Miss Chickles he took a tonic pill regularly every night. On the 11th, therefore, he took one. Left Ironfields on the 12th, and must have slept in London, as the journey is so long. There he took another pill; and at Jarlchester, on the 13th, he took a third. Dr. Drewey analysed three pills, so that's six accounted for out of the twelve. Exactly half, so there ought only to be six left. But there are eight in the box now. Good Heavens! what is the meaning of those two extra pills?"

Turning sharply round, he walked back to the counter.

"Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" he said, quickly; "you must have made up fourteen pills."

"But, monsieur, behold!" said Judas, pointing to the prescription, "No. XII."

"Yes, that's twelve, sure enough," observed Fanks, trying to appear calm, but feeling excited at the thought that he had stumbled on some tangible evidence at last.

"Did you make up the pills?"

"Yes, I myself, monsieur."

"And you are sure you only made up twelve?"

"On my word of honour, monsieur," said Judas, opening his eyes with their guileless look; "but I do not ask monsieur to believe me if he has doubt. Eh, my faith, no! Monsieur my master also counted the pills."

"That is the custom, I believe," said Mr. Fanks, thoughtfully, "a kind of check."

"But certainly, monsieur, without doubt."

At this moment, as if he knew his presence was required, Mr. Wosk walked into the shop, whereupon Monsieur Judas at once explained the matter to him.

"My assistant is—ahem—correct," said Mr. Wosk, sadly, as if he rather regretted it than otherwise. "I remember Mr. Melstane's tonic pills, and I—ahem—did count them. There were—ahem—twelve."

"You are sure?"

"I am certain."

"An' I to myself can assure it," remarked Judas, in English; "but if monsieur would make to himself visits at monsieur le docteur, he could know exactly of the numbers. Eh bien. Je le crois."

"Where does Dr. Japix live?" asked Fanks, picking up the pill-box and putting it in his pocket. "I will call round and see him."

Mr. Wosk wrote out the address and handed it to the detective with a bow.

"There's nothing wrong with the—ahem—medicine, I trust," he said, nervously. "I am—ahem—most careful, and my assistant, Monsieur Judas, is much to be—ahem—trusted."

"I don't know if anything's wrong with these pills," said Octavius, touching his breast coat-pocket, "but you know the saying, 'There is more in this than meets the eye.' Shakespeare, you observe. Wonderful man—appropriate remark for everything. Monsieur Guinaud, I will see you to-night. Mr. Wosk, to-morrow expect me about these pills. Good afternoon."

When he had vanished into the fog, which he did as soon as he went outside, Mr. Wosk turned to his assistant with some alarm.

"I trust, Monsieur Judas, that the pills—the pills—"

"They are in themselves qui' right. Eh! oh, yes," replied Monsieur Judas, letting his eyelids droop over his eyes. "To-morrow I to you will speke of dis—dis—eh! le mystère—vous savez, monsieur. Le Mystère Jarlcesterre."

"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why—ahem—what has it got to do—ahem—with us?"

Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:

"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais—les feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien entendu."

"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr. Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.

"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."

"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.

"Oui, c'est le nom!"

And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.

[Chapter 5]

Dr. Japix Speaks

Octavius Fanks had no difficulty in finding the residence of Dr. Jacob Japix, for that kind-hearted gentleman was well known in Ironfields, not alone in the village suburb, but throughout the great city itself, where his beaming face, his cheery words, and his open hand were much appreciated, especially in the quarters of the poor. Not a professional philanthropist, this large man with the large heart, for he laboured among poverty and vice from an innate desire to do good, and not from any hope that his works would be blazoned forth in the papers. He had no wife, no family, no relations, so he devoted his money, his time, and his talents to the service of paupers who could not afford to give anything in return except gratitude, and did not always give even that.

Of course, he had rich patients also. Oh, yes! many rich people came to Jacob Japix to be cured, and generally went away satisfied, for he was a clever physician, having the eye of a hawk and the intuition of a Galen for all kinds of mysterious diseases. But the money which the rich took from the poor in the way of scant payment for labour done went back to the pockets of the poor via Dr. Japix, so he illustrated in his own small way the law of compensation.

Mr. Fanks knew this doctor very well, having met him in connection with a celebrated poisoning case at Manchester, where he had attended as a witness in the character of an expert. Octavius, therefore, was very much delighted at chance having thrown Japix in his way for this special affair, as he was beginning to be troubled with vague fears the existence of which he persistently refused to acknowledge to himself.

Dr. Japix, being a big man, inhabited a big house just on the outskirts of the town, and on ringing a noisy bell, Octavius was admitted by a big footman, who said, in a big voice, that the Doctor was engaged at present, but would be at liberty soon. And soon it was, for just as the big footman was about to show Fanks into the waiting-room—on the right—a party of three (two ladies and one gentleman), accompanied by Japix, emerged from a door on the left.

One lady was tall, dark, and stately, with a serious cast of countenance; the other, small, fair, and vivacious, a veritable fairy, all sparkle and sunshine; and the gentleman was a long, lean man with a saturnine expression, not by any means prepossessing. Burly Dr. Japix with his big frame, his big voice, and his big laugh, accompanied the trio to the door, talking in a subdued roar the whole time.

"We'll set him up—set him up, Miss Florry, never fear—nerves—pooh! ha! ha! ha! nerves in a bridegroom. Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Ah, but you see you're a bachelor," said the golden-haired fairy, gaily; "a horrid old bachelor, who doesn't know anything except how to give people nasty medicine."

"Hey! now, ha! ha! that's too bad. I always make your medicine nice. Wait till you're a matron, I'll make it nasty."

"When I'm a matron," said Miss Florry, demurely, "I'll take no medicine except Spolger's Soother," at which speech the Doctor laughed, the lean man scowled, and the two ladies attended by the scowl, departed, while the Doctor turned to greet his new visitor.

"Well, sir—well, sir—ha! may I be condemned to live on my own physic if it isn't M. Vidocq."

"Eh, my dear Doctor, me voici. Dumas, my dear physician; you've read 'The Three Musqueteers,' of course."

"Ha! ha! if you start quoting already," roared Japix, rolling ponderously into his study, followed by Fanks, "I give in at once; your memory, Mr. Thief-catcher, is cast-iron, and mine isn't. So I surrender at discretion. Now I'll be bound," continued the Doctor, waggishly, sitting in his huge chair, "you don't know where the quotation comes from."

"I don't," replied Fanks, after a moment's thought, sitting down; "you score one, my dear Doctor. By the way, don't call me Thief-catcher."

"Certainly not, Jonathan Wild."

"Nor that either."

"Why not, M. Fouche?"

"The third is the worst of all. At present I'm nothing but Mr. Rixton—my own name, Dr. Japix, as I told you."

"And Octavius Fanks?"

"Is in the Seventh Circle of Hell—at the back of the North Wind—in Nubibus—anywhere except where Mr. Rixton is."

"Ha! ha! hey! You're down here on business!"

"Private business."

"Ho! ho! and her name?"

"Mary Anne. She's a housemaid, and I love her, oh, I love her, and her heart I would discover! Pish! pshaw! 'Hence, vain deluding joys.' Milton, my dear Doctor! his best poem. But really, I want to be serious."

"Be serious, by all means," said Japix, complacently; "business first, pleasure afterwards. Dine with me to-night!"

"No, I've got an engagement. Say seven to-morrow, and I accept."

"'When found make a note of,'" remarked the Doctor, and scribbled a few lines in his memoranda-book. "Eh! Author?"

"Dickens' Captain Cuttle."

"Very good—go up top."

"Are you going to be serious?" said Fanks, in despair.

"My dear Rixton, I am serious," replied Dr. Japix, composing his features; "proceed!"

"First, who were the people who left as I came in?"

"Now what the deuce do you want to know that for?" said Japix, looking puzzled.

"Because I think one lady is Miss Judith Varlins, and the other Miss Florry Marson."

"Correct so far; but how the—"

"And the gentleman's name, Japix? The lean, lank man that looks like the Ancient Mariner in his shore clothes."

"Jackson Spolger, a patent medicine millionaire. Inherited it from Papa Spolger. Large fortune, disagreeable man, engaged to marry Miss Marson."

"Biography in a nutshell," said Fanks, calmly; "but surely not engaged."

"Why not? Are you in love with her yourself?"

"No; but I thought Sebastian Melstane—"

Dr. Japix uttered an ejaculation not complimentary to Mr. Melstane, and turned fiercely on Fanks.

"Sebastian Melstane be—"

"Don't," interrupted Octavius, holding up a warning hand; "perhaps he is already."

"What do you mean?"

"He is dead."

"Dead!"

"Yes; haven't you read the Jarlchester Mystery?"

"That suicide business. Of course; but I did not think—"

"The dead man was Melstane. Neither did I until an hour ago."

"How did you find out?" asked Japix, gravely.

"By means of this," answered Fanks, placing the pill-box on the table.

"Tonic pills," read Dr. Japix, wonderingly, "eh! Oh, yes, of course; I prescribed tonic pills for Melstane's nerves. But I don't see how you found out his name by this, nor how you connect the name of that scamp Melstane with the man who died at Jarlchester."

"Was Melstane a scamp?"

"Out and out," said Japix, emphatically.

"He must have been bad if you speak ill of him," observed Fanks, reflectively; "kind of man to have enemies, I suppose?"

"I should say plenty."

"Humph! I dare say."

"Dare say what? Talk about the Jarlchester Mystery, what are you?"

"A mystery also, eh, Doctor?" said Fanks, with a smile. "Well, I won't give you the trouble of guessing me. I'll explain myself."

The Doctor settled himself in his large chair, placed his large hands on each of his large knees, and observed in his large voice:

"Now then!"

Whereupon Octavius told him his experience during the Jarlchester inquest, suppressed the conversation and the name of Roger Axton, and finished up by describing how he had discovered the dead man's name from Wosk & Co.

"So you see, Japix," said the detective, decisively, "I saw your name on the prescription, and came at once to see you, as I want you to analyse these eight pills. According to your prescription, according to Mr. Wosk, according to the assistant, twelve pills were made up and delivered to Melstane. I can account for half of the twelve, so that ought to leave six; but in that box you will find eight. Now that is not right!"

"Certainly not!" remarked the Doctor, gravely regarding the pills; "six from twelve do not leave eight—at least, not by the rules of any arithmetic I'm acquainted with."

"So there are two extra pills."

"So I see! Two extra pills not made up by Wosk & Co."

"Now the question is," said Fanks, seriously, laying his hand on one of the Doctor's large knees, "the question is: What do those two extra pills mean?"

The Doctor said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the pill-box, as if he expected it to answer.

"I own," resumed Fanks, leaning back in his chair, "I own that I was half inclined to agree with the verdict of the jurors; it looked like suicide, but I had a kind of uneasy feeling that looks in this case were deceptive, so I thought I would like to know the name of the dead man, in order to find out if there was anything in his past life likely to lead him to self-destruction. I found the name, as I have told you, and I also discovered that there are two extra pills in that box, which have been added after it left the hands of Wosk & Co.—you understand."

"Perfectly."

"Now, those pills cannot have been added by Melstane, as he had no reason to do so. Twelve pills are enough for a man even with nerves, so why should he make those twelve into fourteen?"

"Ah, why, indeed?" said Japix, ponderously. "And your theory?"

"Is simply this. You say Melstane was a scamp; naturally he must have had enemies. Now I firmly believe that the two extra pills contain poison—say morphia, of which Melstane died—and they were placed in the box surreptitiously by one of his enemies."

"Natural enough."

"Melstane," continued Fanks, impressively, leaning forward, "took one of those extra pills, according to his usual custom, before going to bed, quite innocent of doing himself any harm. In the morning Melstane is found dead, and there is no evidence to show how he came by his death."

"Horrible! Horrible!"

"But observe," said Fanks, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger, "observe how 'vaulting ambition o'er-leaps itself.' Again our divine William, Doctor. In other words, observe how the anxiety of the murderer to ensure the death of his victim has led to a danger of his own discovery. If he—I allude to the murderer—had put in one pill, making thirteen—which would have been a lucky number for our undiscovered criminal—the victim would have taken it, and absolutely no trace could have been discovered. Unluckily, however, for the criminal, he, afraid one morphia pill may not effectively do the work, puts in two morphia pills. Result, Sebastian Melstane, in perfect innocence, takes one and dies. The other pill—damning evidence, my dear Doctor—is one of the eight in that box, and I want you to analyse the whole eight pills in order to find that special one."

"And suppose I don't find it?" said Japix, putting the box on the table.

"In that case my theory falls to the ground, and Sebastian Melstane's death will remain a mystery to all men. But as sure as I sit here, Dr. Japix, you will find a deadly morphia pill among those seven harmless tonic pills."

"Your theory," remarked Japix, heavily, "is remarkably ingenious, and may—mind you, I don't say it is—but may be correct. I will analyse these pills, and let you know the result to-morrow. If I find here," said the Doctor, laying one massive hand on the pill-box, "if I find here a morphia pill, it will establish your theory in a certain sense."

"I think it will establish my theory in every sense," retorted Fanks, impetuously.

Dr. Japix shook his large head slowly, and delivered himself oracularly:

"Let us not," he said, looking at Fanks from under his shaggy eyebrows, "let us not jump to conclusions. I may find a morphia pill, but harmless."

"Deadly."

"Possibly harmless," said Japix, firmly.

"Probably deadly," rejoined Octavius, stubbornly.

"If deadly," continued the Doctor, quietly, "I grant your theory is a correct one, and that Sebastian Melstane met his death at the hands of the person who put those two extra pills in the box. If harmless, however," said Japix, raising his voice, "it establishes nothing. Melstane may have suffered from sleeplessness. Seeing his nerves were all wrong, I should say it was very probable he did, and taken morphia pills—purchased from, perhaps, a London chemist—in order to get a good night's rest."

"But why two morphia pills?" objected Octavius, earnestly. "Chemists don't sell morphia pills in twos."

"Your objection, sir, is not without some merit," said Japix, approvingly. "Still these two pills may have been the balance of another box, and placed in this one so as to obviate the trouble of carrying two boxes."

"Possible, certainly, but not probable. No, no, my dear Doctor, you need not try to upset my theory. Wait till you analyse those pills."

"I shall do so to-night, and to-morrow you will have my answer."

"I suppose you didn't give Melstane any morphia pills?" said Fanks, as he arose to take his leave.

"No; I don't believe in morphia pills for sleepless people, except in extreme cases. I generally give chloral, as I did to Mr. Jackson Spolger to-day."

"Oh, the Ancient Mariner," said Octavius, carelessly. "Does he suffer from sleeplessness?"

"Yes; on account of his approaching marriage, I presume."

"With Miss Marson?"

"Exactly."

"By the way," observed Fanks, suddenly, "was she not engaged to Melstane?"

"No, not engaged exactly," replied Japix, thoughtfully; "but she was in love with him. Strange how women adore scamps. But it's a long story, my dear Rixton. To-morrow night, when we both dine, across the walnuts and the wine, I'll tell to thee the tale divine. Ha, ha! you see I'm a poet, eh?"

"Yes, and a plagiarist also. The second line is Tennyson."

"Really, Mr. Bucket—Dickens, you observe—you're as sharp after a rhyme, as after a thief. With your active brain, I wonder you don't suffer from insomnia."

"When I do I'll come to you for morphia pills," said Octavius, laughing: "not the sort in that box, though. I don't want to die yet."

"I don't believe in morphia pills," remarked Japix, rising to accompany his guest to the door. "I never prescribe them. Oh, yes, by the way, I did prescribe some for a Mr. Axton."

Octavius, who was going out of the door, turned suddenly round with a cry of horror.

"Roger Axton!"

"Yes; do you know him? Why, good gracious, what's the matter?"

For Octavius Fanks, trembling in every limb, had sunk into a chair near the door.

"Are you ill? Are you ill?" roared the Doctor, anxiously. "Here, let me get you some brandy."

"No, no!" said Fanks, recovering himself with a great effort, though his face was as pale as death. "I'm all right. I—I used to know Roger Axton, and the name startled me."

"Unpleasant associations," growled Japix, rubbing his large head in a vexed manner. "I hope not—dear, dear—I trust not. I liked the young fellow. A good lad—a very good lad."

Fanks at once hastened to dispel the Doctor's distrust.

"No! nothing unpleasant," he said, hurriedly: "he was my schoolfellow, and I haven't seen him for ten years."

Not a word about the meeting at Jarlchester, even to genial Dr. Japix, for the vague fears which had haunted the detective's mind were now taking a terrible shape—terrible to himself, more terrible to Roger Axton.

"I did not know Axton had been at Ironfields," he said at length, in a hesitating manner.

"Oh, yes, bless you! he was here for some time," cried Japix, cheerily; "I saw a good deal of him."

"What was his reason for staying down here?"

"Aha, aha!" thundered Japix, roguishly, "eh! you saw the reason leave my house to-day. A dark, queenly reason, and as good as gold."

"You allude to Miss Varlins."

"Of course. Ho! ho! 'Love's young dream.' Tommy Moore's remark, eh! 'Nothing half so sweet in life.' No doubt. I have no practical experience of it myself, being a bachelor; but Axton! ah! he thought Moore was right, I'll swear, when he was beside Judith Varlins."

Every word that dropped from the good Doctor's lips seemed to add to that hideous terror in the detective's mind, and he could hardly frame his next question, so paralysed he was by the fearful possibility of "what might be."

"I suppose she loves him?"

"Dear, dear! Now that's exactly what I don't know," said Japix, in a vexed tone; "she does and she doesn't. I was afraid she loved Mr. Scamp Melstane, you know. Women are riddles, eh—yes, worse than the Sphinx. She was with him a good deal, she wrote him letters and all that sort of thing, but it might have been friendship. I don't understand women, you see, I'm a bachelor."

This last speech of the Doctor's seemed too much for Octavius, and he felt anxious to get outside even into the fog and rain in order to breathe. He was so confused by what he had heard that he was afraid to open his lips, lest some word detrimental to his old schoolfellow should escape them. Hastily shaking the Doctor by the hand, he made a hurried promise to see him on the morrow.

"Fog and rain," roared the physician, as Octavius stepped outside; "must expect that now. Eh! ha! ho! ha! November smiles and November tears—principally tears. Yes. Don't forget to-morrow night—the pills—certainly. I will remember. Good-bye. Keep your feet dry. Warm feet and good repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose."

And Japix illustrated his little rhyme by slamming his own door, behind which his big voice could still be heard like distant thunder.

In the fog, in the rain, in the darkness, Octavius Fanks, stopping by a lighted shop-window, pulled out his pocket-book and looked at the memorandum—in shorthand—he had made of his conversation with Roger Axton.

In another moment he had restored the book to its former place, and from his lips there came a low cry of anguish:

"Oh, my old schoolfellow, has it come to this?"

Extracts From A Detectives Note-Book

"It is too terrible . . . I can't believe it . . . He did lie to me, as I thought . . . He has been to Ironfields. He knew the name of Melstane . . . What was he doing at Jarlchester? . . . Why was he there at the same time, in the same house as Melstane? . . . He must have known that the man who died was Melstane . . . He slept in the next room on the night of the murder . . . The door of Melstane's room was ajar in the morning . . . Could Roger have gone into the room and . . . No, no; I can't believe it . . . He would not commit a crime . . . And yet he had morphia pills in his possession . . . What prevented him from getting two pills made extra strong . . . going into Melstane's room at night, and placing them in the box? . . . His motive for doing such a thing? . . . Dr. Japix supplies even that . . . He saw in Melstane a possible rival and wanted him out of the way . . . But what am I writing? . . . He cannot be guilty of this terrible crime . . . Yet everything points to it . . . his presence at Jarlchester . . . his possession of morphia . . . his evasive answers . . . I must find out the truth . . . I can't believe he would act thus, and yet . . .

"Mem.—To write to Axton's London address at once."

[Chapter 6]

Monsieur Judas is Confidential

A short distance from the mansion of Dr. Japix, on the road which ran from Ironfields to the dwellings of the magnates of the city, stood a large, square stone house in a dreary piece of ground. The house itself was also remarkably dreary, being painted a dull gray, with all the windows and doors dismally picked out in black. Two stories it was, with five windows in the top story facing the road, four windows and a door with a porch in the lower, and still deeper down the basements guarded at the sides of the house by spiky iron railings of a most resentful appearance. The garden in front had a broad walk running down to a rusty iron gate, on either side a plot of rank green grass, and in the centre of each churchyard-looking plot a tall, solemn cypress. The four lower windows opened like doors directly on to the grass-plots, but were always closed, as Mrs. Binter (proprietress of this charming establishment) thought egress by the funereal front door was quite sufficient.

Over the porch was a broad whiteboard, whereon was inscribed in grim black letters, "Binter's Boarding-house," and although the sight of the unwholesome house was enough to scare timid mortals, Binter's was generally well stocked, and the proprietress did fairly well in her particular line of overcharging and underfeeding.

A tall, gaunt, grim person was Mrs. Binter, arrayed in a severe-looking dress of a dull gray colour (like the house), and picked out in black (also like the house) by wearing an inky ribbon round her throat, a jet-trimmed gauze cap on her iron-gray hair, and rusty black mittens on her lean hands. She also wore round her narrow waist a thin belt of black leather, attached to which by a steel chain was a large bunch of keys, which so jingled when she walked, that in the twilight one could easily believe that Binter's was haunted by a gaunt ghost clanking its rusty chain through the dreary passages.

Mrs. Binter's papa (long since deceased) had been a warder in the county jail, and his one fair daughter having been brought up with an intimate knowledge of prison life, had so accustomed herself to view the world through the bars of a jail, that she had become quite imbued with the routine, the traditions, and the spirit of a first-class penitentiary. It might have been hereditary, it might have been habitual, but Mrs. Binter was certainly very jail-like in all her ways. Having captured Mr. Binter (who had no mind of his own), she made him marry her, and for the rest of his life relegated him to the basement, where he did all the work of a "boots" without the wages of one. His wife looked after the boarders, whom she treated like prisoners, presiding at her own table, where the food was very plain and very wholesome, seeing that they were in bed in their little cells at a proper hour, and altogether conducting the establishment in as near a manner approaching the paternal system as she was able.

Binter's was usually full, as Mrs. B. always advertised it as being in the country, and the worked-to-death clerks of Ironfields were glad to get a breath of fresh air, even when attended by the inconvenience of living in a private jail. But in the evenings all the prison-boarders generally went out on a kind of ticket-of-leave (the understanding being that they were to be in before midnight), and Mrs. Binter had the whole of her private jail to herself.

On this evening, however, all the boarders had gone out with the exception of Monsieur Judas, who was seated in a little cell (called by courtesy the drawing-room), before a feeble little fire which cowered in a large, cold grate. The room was scantily furnished in a very substantial fashion, the chairs very straight in the backs, the sofa just short enough to prevent any one lying down comfortably, the floor covered with a black and white diamond oilcloth, cold and slippery, with a narrow strip of woollen matting in front of the fire. If Mrs. Binter could have chained the fireirons to the wall (after the most approved prison fashion), she no doubt would have been glad to do so; but as she had to preserve a certain appearance of freedom (for which she was profoundly sorry), she let them lie loose, and Monsieur Judas was now sitting with the tongs in his hand adding little bits of coal to the shivering fire.

Mrs. Binter having ascertained through one of the head-warders (the housemaid) that Monsieur Judas was going to stay in all the evening, regarded this as an infringement of the ticket-of-leave system, and went up to the drawing-room cell to speak to him.

Judas heard the rattle of the keys, and knew the head-jailer was coming along, but without desisting from his employment he raised his crafty eyes to the gaunt figure that speedily stood before him.

"Ain't you goin' out?" queried the gaunt figure, folding its arms, that is, the fingers of each hand grasped the elbows of the other arm.

"De fogs is too moch," responded Judas, picking up another bit of coal, "an' I am chez moi for a frien'."

"Oh, that's it, munseer," said the head-jailer, rattling her keys, "you're expectin' of a friend! Why ain't you goin' back to the shop?"

"Eh! ma chère, non! I am home to-ni."

"You'll want the fire, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Binter, grudgingly, as if she would like to take it away with her, "an' the lamp. I was goin' to put 'em both out, but if you must, you must. Would your friend like supper?"

"Je ne sais pas," said Monsieur Judas, putting down the tongs and shrugging his shoulders. "No! I do no so tink."

"Supper's extra, you know," observed Mrs. Binter, determined to have out of the supper what she was losing in the lamp and fire; "but it ain't hospital to let a friend go away without a bite. It may be French manners," added the jailer with scathing irony, "but it ain't English."

Monsieur Judas spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, murmured something indistinct, and then relapsed into silence, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Binter.

"There's two legs of a fowl," said the lady, rattling her keys. "Binter was goin' to have 'em for his breakfast; but I can trim 'em up with parsley, if you like, an' with bread an' cheese an' a bottle of that sour vinegar you call Julia, it'll be quite a little 'oliday for you."

Just at this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Binter hastening to the front door, admitted Mr. Fanks, took him in charge, and having delivered him over to the safe custody of Monsieur Judas, retired with a final rattle of the keys in deep wrath at her failure with the supper idea.

Octavius, who looked rather pale, but with a stern expression on his face, slipped off his fur coat, and having surveyed Judas with a calculating expression, sat down by the fiction of a fire, the Frenchman taking a seat opposite.

"I do wait for you," said Monsieur Judas, smoothing one lean hand with the other, and letting his eyelids droop over his crafty eyes.

"Speak French," replied Fanks, in that language; "we'll understand one another better if you do."

"Eh, certainly, my friend," said Judas, rapidly, "it is easier for me. You speak French very well; eh, yes, very well, monsieur."

Fanks acknowledged this compliment with a stiff nod, and plunged at once into the object of his visit.

"Now, Monsieur Guinaud, about your friend, Melstane?"

"Eh! a moment, if you please," hissed Judas, in his low, soft voice, holding up his hand. "Before we speak of the poor Melstane let us understand each other, monsieur. That is but right, my friend."

"Yes, it is but right; what do you want to know?"

Monsieur Judas placed his elbows on his knees, warmed his claw-like hands over the fire, and looked cunningly at the detective before speaking.

"Your name, monsieur?"

"Rixton."

"It is very well—that name, Monsieur Fanks," replied Judas, with a mocking smile.

"You know my real name, I see," rejoined Octavius, without moving a muscle of his face. "I compliment you on your penetration."

"Eh, it is not much," said the Frenchman, with a deprecatory shrug. "Monsieur Vosk he read to me the papers of Jarlcesterre, and I find one Monsieur Fanks, agent of the police, to be present. He has the box which my poor friend had for the pills. A stranger comes to me and shows the same box, and I say: 'Monsieur Fanks.' Is that not so?"

"Well, you've read the papers," observed Fanks, slowly, "and know all the circumstances of your friend's death."

"The papers say he gave himself the death, monsieur."

"And what do you say?"

"Eh, I do not know," replied Monsieur Judas, shrugging his shoulders, and opening his eyes to their fullest extent (the guileless look). "What is the opinion of monsieur?"

Mr. Fanks thought a moment or two before replying. He wanted to find out all about Melstane's past life, and no one could tell him so much as the fellow-lodger of the dead man. Judas, however, was no ordinary man, and would not speak freely unless he knew the whole circumstances of the case. Now Fanks did not trust Judas in any way. He did not like his appearance, nor his manner, nor anything about him, and would have preferred him to remain in ignorance of his (Fanks') suspicions. But as he could not find out what he wanted to know without telling Judas his suspicions, and as he could not tell Judas his suspicions without letting him know more than he cared to, Octavius was rather in a dilemma.

Guinaud saw this and put an end to this hesitation in a most emphatic fashion.

"Monsieur, I see, does not trust me," he said, with an injured air. "Monsieur would know all and tell nothing. But no, certainly that will not be pleasing to me. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I am a Frenchman, me, I am a man of honour, is it not so? Monsieur knows all of the case; but I—eh! I may know something of good also. If monsieur shows me his heart, the heart of Jules Guinaud is open to him. There it is."

Not the heart of Monsieur Guinaud, but the statement of Monsieur Guinaud's feelings; so Fanks, seeing that he must either give confidence for confidence or remain ignorant, chose the former alternative, and spoke out.

"Very well, I will tell you what I think, but of course you will keep our conversation secret."

Judas blew an airy kiss with a light touch of the long fingers on his mouth, and laughed pleasantly.

"My faith, yes. Monsieur is the soul of honour, and I, Monsieur Fanks—eh, is it not the name?—I am the resemblance of that soul. What you speak this night drops into the open heart of me. Snip, as say you English, I close the heart. The talk is safe; but, yes—you understand."

"Then that's all right," said Fanks, grimly; "we may as well proceed to business. As Mr. Vosk translated to you, the papers say Melstane committed suicide—gave himself the death! Comprehend you, eh? Very well. I say no. It was a crime! Melstane was murdered."

"And by whom, monsieur?"

"That's what I've got to find out."

"And the opinion of monsieur?"

"I will explain. Melstane had a box of tonic pills with him, containing, when it left your shop, twelve pills."

"It is true, monsieur, twelve pills."

"I can account for six pills, and in the box at present there are eight."

"I understand," said Judas, quickly. "Two pills were placed in the box by an unknown. Those two pills contained poison. The poor Melstane took one pill of poison, and died. Monsieur has taken the pills to Monsieur the Dr. Japix to find the other pill."

"You are perfectly right," said Fanks, rather astonished at the rapidity with which the assistant grasped the case.

"Eh, monsieur, I am not blind," replied Judas, shrugging his shoulders; "and now monsieur desires to find the unknown who placed the pills of poison in the box."

"Exactly! And to do so I want you to tell me all you know about Sebastian Melstane's life here," answered Fanks, producing his secretive little note-book.

Monsieur Guinaud looked thoughtfully at the fire, then glanced up at the ceiling, and at length brought his eyes (guileless expression) to rest on the face of Mr. Fanks.

"It is difficult to make the commencement," he said, speaking slowly, as if he weighed every word. "Behold, monsieur, I make the story to myself this way: My poor Sebastian, he is an artist. Eh! not what you call a great artist for the Salon in London, but good in the pictures. Oh! yes, much of the talent. Six months ago, in London, he beholds a pretty lady. It is Mees Mar-rson, the daughter of the very rich monsieur of this town. My friend has the grand passion for the charming mees—eh! I believe it well—and comes to this town to say 'I love you!' Alas, he finds that the too charming mees is to marry the rich Monsieur Sp—Sp—I cannot say your English names."

"Spolger!"

"But certainly that is the name. Yes! she is to marry this rich monsieur; but my brave Sebastian, he mocks himself of that. Here in this house he stays, and I make myself his friendship. He tells me all his love. The father of my charming mees is enraged, and forbids my friend to look, to see, to speak with the beautiful child. But she has a heart, this angel, and loves to distraction the handsome boy, my friend. They meet, they talk, they write the letters, and monsieur the father knows nothing. Then to this pension there comes Monsieur Axton."

"Roger Axton?" said Fanks, biting his lips.

"Yes, truly! You know him? Eh! it is strange," said Judas, inquisitively.

"It is well, it is well, I know him," replied Fanks, waving his hand impatiently; "go on, Monsieur Guinaud."

"Very well! This Monsieur Roger has the love for the beautiful Mees Var-rlins! Eh! you understand? He goes to the house, and is a friend of monsieur the father. The poor Sebastian and this monsieur have not the friendship. Monsieur Roger tells the dear Mees Var-rlins of the meetings of Mees Mar-rson and my friend. Mees Mar-rson is taken away to the Ile de Vite; Monsieur Roger also goes in August. The brave Sebastian, he mocks himself, and moves not. When they return, Mees Var-rlins is the chaperon of the angel, and she meets not my friend. This Sebastian insults Monsieur Roger as a spy—a villain, and Monsieur Roger departs in October."

"Departs for what place?" asked Fanks, making a note of the month in his book.

"I do not know," replied Judas, with a characteristic shrug; "Monsieur Roger is not my friend. In November, my Sebastian, he says to me: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre.'"

"What did he mean by 'it is well'?"

"But, monsieur, I am in darkness. Yes, truly. He had visited the house of Monsieur le Pilule."

"You mean Spolger's house?"

"Yes! He sees Monsieur le Pilule to speak of his love for Mees Mar-rson. When he returns to this pension, he says: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre'—no more. Then my friend, the brave Sebastian, goes to Jarlcesterre, and I see him not more."

"An interview between Melstane and Spolger could hardly have been satisfactory," said Fanks, looking keenly at the Frenchman.

"Eh, monsieur, I know nothing of that," answered Judas, with his guileless look.

"Why did Melstane go to Jarlchester, of all places in the world?"

"I have told monsieur everything," said Monsieur Cuinaud, with oily politeness.

"Humph! I'm doubtful of that," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "And is that all you know?"

"Eh! what would you?"

"It doesn't throw any light on the murder."

"Wait, monsieur," said Judas, earnestly, "a moment. One night before my friend went away, Mees Var-rlins stop her carriage at the shop. She comes in to me and says: 'I cannot get a stamp of postage. Have you a stamp of postage?' I say 'yes,' and give her a stamp of postage. She places the stamp of postage on a letter, and goes away in the carriage. I see the letter."

"And the name on the letter?"

"Monsieur Roger Axton, Jarlcesterre," said Judas, quietly; "now! eh! you see?"

"I see nothing," replied Fanks, bluntly. "Miss Varlins wrote to Axton at Jarlchester. What of that? I know Axton was at Jarlchester; I saw him there."

"Is that so?" said Monsieur Judas, eagerly; "then, behold, monsieur! Axton is at Jarlcesterre; Melstane goes down also to Jarlcesterre. Before he goes," pursued Judas, bending forward and speaking in a whisper, "he buy pills of morphia! eh! is that not so? My friend and Axton are enemies. At Jarlcesterre they meet; the poor Melstane dies of morphia! What would you?"

"Do you mean to say that Roger Axton murdered Melstane?" cried Fanks, trying to control himself.

Monsieur Judas spread out his hands once more.

"I say nothing, monsieur. But because of Miss Mar-rson they fight—they fight desperate. Axton has the pills of morphia. Melstane dies of the pills of morphia! But no, I say nothing."

"I think you've said quite enough," retorted Fanks, coldly. "I don't believe what you say."

"Monsieur!"

"Don't ruffle your feathers, Monsieur Guinaud; I mean what I say, and in order to prove it, I'll ask Roger Axton to come down here and give his version of the story."

"He can but say what I declare."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"Monsieur?"

"Sir."

The two men had risen to their feet, and were standing opposite to one another; Fanks cold and scornful, Judas visibly agitated, with his eyes narrowed down into a dangerous expression. He looked like a snake preparing for a spring, and Fanks was on his guard; but at length, with a hissing laugh, Judas stepped back and bowed submissively.

"Let us not fight, I pray you, monsieur," he said, gently; "when Monsieur Axton comes you will see that I speak truly."

"Till that time comes," replied Octavius, putting on his coat, "we need not meet."

"As monsieur please."

"Good-bye, Monsieur Guinaud."

"Au revoir, monsieur."

"I said good-bye."

"Eh! yes! I replied 'Au revoir,' monsieur."

Octavius turned on his heel without another word, and left the room. In the passage he met Mrs. Binter, hovering round in the hope of supper being ordered. She at once took Fanks in charge, and conducting him to the door, released him from prison with manifest reluctance.

Meanwhile Monsieur Judas, left alone, was leaning against the mantelpiece with a smile on his evil face.

"Eh! Monsieur Axton," he said to himself, in a whisper, "you gave me the insult. To-night I have paid the debt—in part! Wait, Monsieur Axton; wait, Meess Var-rlins; I hold you both. It is I, Jules Guinaud, that can strike—when I wish."

Extracts From A Detective's Note-Book

"I don't believe second thoughts are best. I always go by first impressions . . . My first impressions of Judas—I give him his nickname—are bad . . . He's a slimy scoundrel, very difficult to deal with . . . In our interview of to-night I had to tell him more than I cared he should know . . . But it was my only chance of finding out anything . . . What I did find out looks very bad for Roger Axton . . . He was at Ironfields, in spite of his denial . . . He stayed at Binter's boarding-house, and knew Melstane intimately . . . I learn from Judas that they quarrelled bitterly . . . This is very bad . . . Roger left Ironfields in a rage against Melstane . . . When next seen he is down at Jarlchester in the same house as Melstane . . . He has a grudge against Melstane, and while he is under the same roof Melstane dies . . . God forgive me if I should be suspecting my old schoolfellow wrongfully, but things look very suspicious against him . . . Another thing I learned from Judas, viz., that Miss Varlins corresponded with Roger at Jarlchester.

"Query! Can she know anything about the death?

"I have written to Axton, asking him to come down here and see me . . . If he refuses, I'm afraid my suspicions will be confirmed . . . I wish I could disbelieve Judas . . . He looks a secretive scoundrel . . . and yet his story against Roger is confirmed by my own experience . . . I think—no, I dare not think . . . I will wait to hear the other side of the story from Axton . . ."

[Chapter 7]

An Unwilling Bride

Francis Marson was one of the most prominent men in Ironfields, owing to his immense wealth, his clear head, and his personal attributes. His father, a keen man of business, had been born and bred in the little village from which Ironfields had sprung, and when the discovery of iron in the vicinity had laid the foundations of the present world-renowned town, Francis Marson the elder had been one of the first to profit by the discovery. He watched his opportunity, bought land (with borrowed money) on which he believed rich veins of iron ore might be found, and when they were found, built a foundry, turned over the money, paid back what he had borrowed, and was soon on the high road to fortune. When firmly established he sent his only son to college, and then took him into the business, which henceforward was known as that of Marson & Son. In the fulness of time he was gathered to his fathers, and Francis Marson the younger stepped into the enjoyment of unlimited wealth.

The younger Marson (now iron-gray, severe, and stately) married the only daughter of Sir Miles Canton, of Canton Hall, and on the death of the old baronet that property came into the possession of Mr. and Mrs. Marson, who henceforth took up their residence in the old Tudor mansion.

Fortune having been thus kind to Francis Marson, thought it well to remind him that complete happiness was not the lot of any mortal, so robbed him of his wife, who died some years after giving birth to Florence Marson. On her death-bed, the young mother confided the child to her husband, and implored him to bring her up with Judith Varlins, the daughter of a distant relation. Judith, who was at that time twelve years of age and grave beyond her years, took this so to herself that little Florry was confided to her care, and henceforth devoted her life to the guardianship of the six-year-old child. Francis Marson, broken down by grief, went away on his travels, and the two children grew up together, went to school together, and when their school-days were over returned to Canton Hall in company with its master.

Now Florry Marson was a charming, golden-haired fairy of twenty years of age, while Judith was a stately brunette some six years older. Blonde and brunette, day and night, dark and fair, they were both equally charming in their own way, but as different in disposition as in appearance. Judith was mistress of the Hall, looked after the servants, received the company, and in fact acted as the elder sister, while Florry, bright-eyed and frivolous, did nothing but amuse herself. Francis Marson was fond of both the girls, but simply worshipped Florry, who lighted up the whole house like a sunbeam. Both Judith and the father combined to spoil her, and up to the age of twenty the life of Florry had been nothing but pleasure, gaiety, and sunshine.

Then came the episode of Sebastian Melstane, who had met Florry in London, and she, reckless in all things, had given away her frivolous little heart to this handsome, dark-haired artist. On making inquiries, Mr. Marson had found out sufficient about Mr. Melstane's past life to make him resolve his darling should never marry such a scamp, and he forbade Florry to think of him. Upon which Miss Florry, with her silly little head stuffed full of poetry and romance, regarded Melstane as a persecuted hero, and on his coming to Ironfields met him by stealth, wrote him letters, exchanged presents, and in fact did everything a foolish girl would do when flattered and loved by a romantic scamp.

Roger Axton, knowing Melstane's bad character, had put an end to these stolen meetings by telling Judith, and Florry was carried off to Ventnor. While there she still sighed after her lover, and when she returned to Ironfields saw him with difficulty, as Judith was too vigilant to let her remain long out of her sight. Then Melstane went to Jarlchester, and Florry said to Judith with many tears and sighs that she would be true to him, although she had now been engaged for some time to Mr. Jackson Spolger, the son of a man who had made his money out of a patent medicine.

Francis Marson had set his heart on this match, and although Florry violently protested against it, insisted that she should become engaged to Mr. Spolger, as he was anxious to place her beyond the power of Sebastian Melstane, and, moreover, Jackson Spolger was too wealthy a suitor to be rejected lightly.

Some days after Fanks' visit to Monsieur Judas at the end of November, Judith and Florry were both in the drawing-room of the Hall having afternoon tea.

It was a large, handsome apartment, furnished with great artistic taste, principally due to Miss Varlins, who had a wonderful eye for colour and effect. A curiously carved oaken ceiling, walls draped with dark red velvet which fell in heavy folds to the velvet pile carpet of the same colour, plenty of sombre pictures in oil in tarnished gilt frames, many small tables covered with nicknacks (selected by frivolous Florry), numbers of comfortable lounging-chairs, inviting repose, and a handsome grand piano littered with loose music (Florry again)—it was truly a delightful room. Then there were cabinets of rare china, monstrous jars of quaint design and bizarre colours, and flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. Both ladies had a perfect passion for flowers, and even in this bleak month of November the most exquisite exotics were to be seen throughout the room in profusion, filling the air with their heavy odours.

Four windows at the other end of the room looked out on to the garden, but were now closed, for it was a cold afternoon, and the driving rain beat against the glass and on the leafless trees outside. A blazing fire in the old fashioned fireplace with its quaint Dutch tiles, a low table drawn near the hearth, on which stood the tea service, and Miss Varlins in a chair knitting quietly, while Florry flitted about the room like a restless fairy in the waning light.

A handsome woman, Judith Varlins, with a proud, dark face, and a somewhat stern expression, which always relaxed to tenderness when it rested on the diminutive form of Florry. And that young lady was very tiny, more like a piece of Dresden china than anything else, with her delicate complexion, her piquant face, glittering golden hair, and dainty figure. Clothed in white—Miss Marson always affected white—in some lacy material, soft and delicate like a cobweb, she formed a strong contrast to the sombre beauty of Judith in her plain, black silk dress.

And the little figure went flitting here and there, now at the windows, looking out into the chill twilight, then bending over some great bunch of flowers inhaling the perfume, at the piano striking a few random chords, hovering round the tea table, flashing into the red firelight, melting into the cold shadows, like to some will-o'-the-wisp, some phantom, some restless shadow rather than anything of this earth.

"Florry, my pet," said Judith, at length, pausing in her knitting, "you will tire yourself running about so much." Whereupon the fairy floated airily towards the fire, and settled lightly down, like thistledown, on a footstool, where she sat clasping her knees with her arms with a cross expression of countenance, a very discontented fairy indeed.

"For really," she said, at length, pursuing a train of thought that was in her shallow mind, "to be called Spolger—Mrs. Jackson Spolger. It's horrid! so is he. The monster!"

"Florry, Florry! don't talk like that about your future husband," remonstrated Judith; "it's not nice, my dearest."

"Neither is he," retorted Miss Marson, resting her chin on her knees and staring into the fire; "he's so lean, like a skeleton, and so crabbed—oh, so crabbed."

"But he loves you, dear."

"Yes, like a dog loves a bone. I know he's one of those men who hit their wives over the head with a poker; he looks like a poker man. I wish he was Sebastian, and Sebastian was he."

"Don't talk about Sebastian, my dear Florence," said Miss Varlins, severely—that is, as severely as she could to Florry; "your father would never have agreed to your marrying such a scamp!"

"He's no worse than other people," muttered Florry, rebelliously.

"I don't know about other people," replied Judith, coldly; "but I'm certain Sebastian Melstane would have made you a bad husband. However, he's gone now, and you'll never see him again."

"Never!"

"No, never! Mr. Melstane has passed out of your life entirely," said Judith, looking steadily at Florry, who appeared to be rather scared.

"What horrid things you say, Judith, you horrid thing," she whimpered, at length. "I don't know why Sebastian went away, and I don't know why he hasn't written to me. I thought he loved me, but if he had, he would have written. But he'll come back and explain everything."

"I'm certain he won't!" answered Judith, sternly.

"Why are you certain?"

"I have my reasons," said Judith, quietly.

It might have been the twilight or the dancing shadows of the fire, but as she spoke her face seemed to grow old and haggard for the moment, even to Miss Marson's unobservant eyes. Florry with her own blue eyes wide open, a terrified expression on her face, and a tremulous under-lip, suddenly burst into tears, and rising from her footstool, flung herself on her knees at the feet of her cousin, sobbing violently.

"Come, come!" said Miss Varlins, smoothing the golden head as it lay in her lap. "I did not mean to speak severely; but really, Florry, I was very sorry that Mr. Melstane loved you."

"I—I can't help it if he did," sobbed Florry, passionately; "it's not my fault if people will love me. There's Mr. Spolger—he's always making love, and that horrid, red-haired Frenchman; every time I go out he never takes his eyes off my face."

"What! that man at Wosk's?" cried Judith, with great indignation. "Surely he has not such impertinence!"

"No, he hasn't," replied Florry, sitting up and drying her eyes; "but he will look at me in such a way. I'm sure he's in love with me—the horrid thing."

"He was a friend of Mr. Melstane's, I believe," said Judith, angrily, "and you, no doubt, saw him during those foolish meetings with that man."

"No, I didn't," answered Florry, going back to her footstool; "I never saw him at all. And our meetings weren't foolish. I love Sebastian very much, only papa will make me marry this horrid Spolger thing."

"How many times did you see Mr. Melstane?"

"Five or six times here and once in London.

"Florry!"

"Well!" said Miss Marson, pettishly, "you asked me? I saw him in London that day I went to see Aunt Spencer, when we stopped in London on our way to Ventnor."

"Why didn't Aunt Spencer tell me of it, then?"

"She didn't know," answered Florry, penitently. "I met Sebastian on the way, and we were together for two hours. Then I went on to Aunt Spencer and told her nothing."

"And told me nothing also," said Judith, severely. "Upon my word, Florry, I did not think you were so deceitful! You met Mr. Melstane in London, and this is the first I hear about it."

"Well, you were so horrid, Judith," pouted Florry, playing with her handkerchief; "and Sebastian told me to say nothing."

"He's a bad man!"

"No, he's not," retorted Miss Marson, angrily; "he's a very nice man, and I love him very, very much, in spite of Mr. Spolger—there!"

Judith was about to make some angry reply, feeling thoroughly disgusted at Florry's duplicity, when the door was thrown open, and Mr. Marson entered the room.

A tall, severe-looking man, this Francis Marson, with a worn, worried expression on his face. He sighed wearily as he sat down near the fire.

"Oh, what a sigh—what a big sigh!" cried Florry, recovering her spirits and poising herself on the old man's knee. "What is the matter, papa?"

"Nothing, child, nothing," replied Marson, hastily, smoothing the golden hair of his darling. "Business worries, my dear; what I spoke about the other day."

"Oh!"

Florry drew down the corners of her mouth as if she were going to cry; then, suddenly changing her mind, she threw her arms round her father's neck, and placed her soft face against his withered cheek.

"Don't talk about business, papa," she said, coaxingly; "I hate it; it's so disagreeable."

"So it is for a frivolous young person like you, dear," said Mr. Marson, cheerfully; "but it's very necessary all the same. What would become of your thousand and one wants but for this same business you so disapprove of?"

"Oh, I wish I had a fairy purse," cried Florry, clapping her hands, "with a gold piece in it every time I opened it. It would save such a lot of trouble."

"A fairy world," said Mr. Marson, looking at her fondly; "that is what you would like. And you the lovely princess whom the handsome prince comes to awaken."

"Well, Florry has a prince," said Judith, quietly; "the Prince of the Gold Mines!"

She had not been paying much attention to the conversation between father and daughter, as she was evidently thinking deeply, and her thoughts, judging from the severe expression of her countenance, were not particularly pleasant. The last words of Mr. Marson, however, enchained her attention, and she made the remark about the prince on purpose to see if the old man knew how disagreeable the Spolger alliance was to his child.

"A prince!" echoed Florry, tossing her head. "And what a prince! He's more like an ogre."

"A very devoted ogre, at all events," said Judith, significantly.

"Spolger's a good fellow," observed Marson, hurriedly; "a little rough, perhaps, but his heart is in the right place. Beauty is only skin-deep."

"I suppose you mean—" began Florry, when her father interrupted her quickly.

"Florry," he said, angrily, "I forbid you to mention that man's name. I would sooner see you in your grave than married to Sebastian Melstane."

"There's no chance of that occurring now," interjected Judith, with sombre earnestness.

The fairy looked from one to the other with a scared expression of countenance, and seeing how severe they both looked, subsided into a white heap on the hearthrug, and burst into tears.

"How horrid you are, papa," she cried, dismally; "and so is Judith. I'm sure Mr. Melstane's very nice. He's so handsome, and talks so beautifully about poetry. He's like Conrad, and Mr. Spolger isn't, and I wish I was dead with a tombstone and a broken heart," concluded Miss Marson, tearfully.

Judith looked at Mr. Marson, and he looked at Judith. They both felt quite helpless in dealing with this piece of frivolity, whose very weakness constituted her strength. At last Mr. Marson, bending down, smoothed Florry's hair fondly, and spoke soothingly to her.

"My dear child," he said, quietly, "you know that all I desire is your happiness; and, believe me, you will thank me in after life for what I am now doing. Sebastian Melstane is a scamp and a spendthrift. If you married him, he would neglect you and make you miserable. Jackson Spolger will make you a good husband, and protect a delicate flower like you from the bleak winds of adversity."

"But he's so ugly," sobbed Florry, childishly; "just like the what's-his-name in 'Notre Dame.'"

"If you have such an aversion to marry him, Florry, then don't do it," said Judith, quietly. "I'm sure your father would not force you into a marriage against your will."

"By no means," said Marson, hastily. "I placed the case before you the other day, Florry, and I place it now. As you know, I have had great losses lately, and unless I can obtain a large sum of ready money I will be irretrievably ruined. Jackson Spolger has promised to put money into the business if you become his wife. I told you this, and you consented, so it is childish of you to go on like this, If you dislike Spolger so much, I will not force you to marry him; but I warn you that your refusal means ruin."

"You won't let me marry Sebastian Melstane," cried Florry, obstinately.

"No, I won't," retorted her father, angrily. "You need not marry Mr. Spolger unless you like, but you—you certainly shall not marry Sebastian Melstane with my consent; I would rather see you in your grave."

"Then I suppose I must marry Mr. Spolger," said Florry, dolefully drying her eyes.

"That is as you please," replied Marson, rising to his feet and walking slowly to and fro. "I don't want to sell my child for money. I simply place the case before you, and you are free to refuse or accept as you please. Yes means prosperity, no means ruin, and the choice is entirely in your hands."

Florry said nothing, but sat on the hearthrug twisting her handkerchief and staring at the fire.

"I would like to say one word, Florry," said Judith, bending forward. "If you did not intend to marry Mr. Spolger you should have said so at first; now the wedding-day is fixed for next week, your dresses are ready, the guests are invited, so it would be rather hard on the poor man to dash the cup of happiness from his lips just as he is tasting it."

"Nevertheless," said Marson, stopping in his walk, "late as it is, Florry, if you think that you cannot make Jackson Spolger a good wife, I will break off the match without delay."

"But that means ruin," cried Florry, tearfully.

"Yes!" said Marson, curtly, "ruin."

Florry sat thinking as deeply as her shallow little brain would allow her. She saw plainly that if she refused to marry Mr. Spolger, she would never gain her fathers consent to her marriage with Melstane, and as a refusal meant ruin without any chance of obtaining the wish of her heart, she did not see what was to be gained by being perverse. Shallow, frivolous, selfish as she was, she saw all this quite plainly, and, moreover, being too timid to brook her father's displeasure, she made up her mind to yield. Rising to her feet, she stole towards her father, as he stood in gloomy silence looking out on the wintry lawn, and threw her arms round his neck.

"Papa," she whispered, "I will marry Mr. Spolger."

"Of your own free will?" he asked, a trifle sternly.

"Of my own free will," she repeated, steadily. "I am sorry for Sebastian, for I do love him; but I don't want to vex you, dearest, so I'll be awfully nice to Mr. Spolger and marry him next week."

"My dearest," said Marson, in a tone of great relief, "you don't know how happy you have made me."

"Florry," cried Judith, rolling up her work.

"Yes, Judith," said Florry, leaving her father, and coming to her cousin.

"You are quite sure you mean what you say?" asked Miss Varlins, looking at her steadily.

"Quite sure."

"No more tears or crying after Sebastian?"

"Don't talk of Sebastian," said Florry, angrily. "I'll marry Mr. Spolger, and I dare say he'll make me happy."

Judith said no more, but resumed her work with a sigh; but Mr. Marson, coming towards the fire, was about to speak, when the door opened and a footman announced: "Mr. Jackson Spolger."

[Chapter 8]

Mr. Spolger Tells a Story

Jackson Spolger, proprietor of that celebrated patent medicine, "Spolger's Soother," was a long, lean, lank man, with a somewhat cross face, and a mildly irritable manner. Spolger the father had been a chemist, but having invented the "Soother," made his fortune thereby, owing to lavish advertising and plenty of testimonials (paid for) from hypochondriacal celebrities. Having thus fulfilled his mission in this world, and benefited his fellow men by the "Soother," he departed therefrom, leaving his money and his "Soother" to Spolger the son, who still carried on the advertising business, and derived a large income from it. He had been well educated, had travelled a good deal, and had a kind of social veneer, which, added to his money, entitled him to be called a gentleman. Although he suffered a good deal from ill-health, he never by any chance used the "Soother," which led ill-natured people to remark that it was made to sell and not to cure. Mr. Spolger, however, did not mind ill-natured people being too much taken up with himself and his ailments, of which he was always talking. He chatted constantly about his own liver, or some one else's liver, prescribed remedies, talked gloomily of his near death, and altogether was not a particularly agreeable person.

Being thus a diseased egotist, he carried his mania for health even into his matrimonial prospects, and loved Florry not so much on account of her beauty as because she looked delicate, and in a wife of such a constitution he thought he would always have some one beside him, on whom to practise his little curative theories. He always carried in his pocket a horrible little book called "Till the Doctor Comes," and was never so delighted as when he found some one sufficiently ill who would permit him to prescribe one of the remedies from his precious book. He preferred a chemist's shop to his own house, loved doctors above all other men, and contemplated passing his honeymoon in a hydropathic establishment, where there would be plenty of fellow-sufferers with whom to compare notes.

At present he was clad in a heavy tweed suit, and wore a thickly lined fur coat, galoshes on his feet, and a roll of red flannel round his throat.

"How do you do, Mr. Marson?" he said, in a thin, irritable voice, as he shook hands. "I hope you are well. You don't look it. Your hand is moist; that's a bad sign. Dry? Yes, mine is dry. I'm afraid it's fever. Diseases are so subtle. Miss Varlins, you look healthy. Florry, my dearest, what a thin dress for this weather!"

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Spolger."

"Jackson," he interpolated.

"It's all right, Jackson," said Florry, gaily. "I'm quite healthy."

"Ah, yes, now," replied Mr. Spolger, darkly, sitting down; "but that thin dress means a chill. It might settle on the lungs, and you might be in your coffin before you know where you are."

"Nonsense, man," said Marson, in a hearty voice; "the room is quite warm. Won't you take off that heavy coat?"

"Not at present," answered Mr. Spolger, emphatically. "I always accustom myself to the temperature of a place by degrees. A sudden chill is worse than damp feet."

"Will you have some tea, Mr. Spolger?" asked Judith, for the footman had now brought in the teapot and a plate of toast.

"No, thank you," answered the hypochondriac, politely. "I'm undergoing a course of medicine just now, and tea in my present condition means death."

"Then have some toast," said Florry, laughingly, presenting him with the plate.

"Buttered," said Mr. Spolger, looking at the plate. "Horrible! The worst thing in the world for me! I take dry toast for breakfast, with a glass of hot water—nothing more."

"I hope you don't intend me to breakfast like that," said Florry, saucily.

"My dear, you can eat what you like," answered Mr. Spolger, solemnly producing his little book. "Should you suffer from your indiscretion, I have always got the remedy in this."

"Did the medicine Dr. Japix prescribed do you good?" asked Judith.

"Not a bit," said Spolger, slowly taking off his coat. "I still suffer from sleeplessness. However, I've got a new idea I'm going to carry out. Cold water bandages at the head, and a hot brick at the feet. There, now my coat is off I feel beautiful."

"Well! well!" said Mr. Marson, rather impatient of all this medical talk, "I hope you'll be quite well for your wedding."

"I hope so, too," retorted Spolger, with gloomy foreboding. "I've arranged all the tour, Florry. We go first to Malvern, a very healthy place, then to Bath to drink the waters. After that, if you like, we'll go abroad, though I much distrust the drainage of these foreign towns."

"Oh, let us go abroad at once," said Florry, eagerly; "to Paris. If you find it too lively, you can walk everyday in the Père-la-Chaise Cemetery."

"Don't jest on such a subject, Florry," said Judith, reprovingly.

"Oh, I don't mind," replied the lover, with gloomy relish; "we'll all have to go to the cemetery some day, so it's as well to get accustomed to the idea."

His three listeners looked rather depressed at this dismal prophecy, but said nothing, while Mr. Spolger told cheerful little stories of how his liver would treat him if he did not look after it. This led him to talk of medicine, which suggested chemists, which in their turn suggested Wosk & Co., so by-and-by Mr. Spolger began to talk of Monsieur Judas.

"A most estimable young man," he said, feeling his own pulse in a professional manner; "he has had typhoid fever twice, and suffers from corns."

"Tight boots?" asked Florry, flippantly.

"No, hereditary! Most curious case. But talking of Monsieur Guinaud—"

"Judas," said Miss Varlins, smiling.

"Yes, I hear they call him Judas on account of his red hair," replied Mr. Spolger, laughing carefully. "Well, as a chemist, he takes a great interest in Florry."

"In me?" cried the damsel, indignantly.

"Yes; he thinks you look delicate," said Mr. Spolger, complacently; "indeed, he suggested several remedies. And if you would see him—"

"No, no!" interposed Marson, quickly. "Really, Jackson, I'm astonished at you. If Florry requires to see a medical man, there is Dr. Japix; but as to letting a man like that Frenchman meddle with her health—why, the very look of him is enough."

"Consumption," said Mr. Spolger, sagaciously; "he looks delicate, I know."

"I think he is a very dangerous man," said Judith, in her quiet, composed voice; "he was a great friend of—" Here she checked herself suddenly.

"Of Melstane," finished Spolger, scowling. "Yes, I know that. And talking about Mr. Melstane—"

"Don't talk about Mr. Melstane," said Marson, sharply.

"Why not?"

Florry answered him, for she was evidently struggling with a fit of hysteria, and as he spoke she arose from her seat and fled rapidly from the room, followed by Judith.

"There," said Marson, in an annoyed tone, "how foolish you are to speak of that scamp!"

"I don't see why Florry shouldn't get used to his name," replied Spolger, sulkily. "Of course, I know she loved him, but it's all over now; he won't trouble her again."

"Why not?" demanded Marson, quickly.

"Because he's gone away. He had the impudence to call on me before he went, but I soon settled him, though he upset me dreadfully."

"What did he call about?"

Spolger was going to reply, when once more the door was thrown open, and the footman announced in stentorian tones:

"Mr. Roger Axton."

"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Axton?" said Mr. Marson, going forward to meet the young man. "I did not know you were down here."

"No! I came by this morning's train from town," replied Roger, shaking the old man's hand. "I trust you are well, Mr. Spolger?"

That gentleman shook his head as Axton sat down, and lights being brought in at this moment, looked sharply at the new-comer, answering his question in the Socratian fashion by asking another.

"Are you well?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Roger, hurriedly, "perfectly. I suffer a good deal from sleeplessness."

"You should try—"

"Spolger's Soother, I suppose?"

"No," said Jackson, solemnly, "I never recommend that to my friends. You should try morphia. Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," answered Roger, faintly, for he had started violently at the mention of the drug, "only I'm rather nervous."

"You've been overworking, I suppose," said Mr. Marson, looking at him keenly; "burning the midnight oil."

"No, indeed! I've been on a walking tour."

"Very healthy exercise," said Mr. Spolger, approvingly. "I can't indulge in it myself because I've a tendency to varicose veins. What part of the country were you walking in?"

"Down Winchester way," replied Roger, raising his eyes suddenly and looking at Mr. Marson steadily.

"Oh, indeed!" answered that gentleman, with a start; "then I suppose you were near Jarlchester."

"I was at Jarlchester," said Roger, emphatically, "during the investigation of that case."

Both his listeners were silent, as if some nameless fear paralysed their tongues; then Marson looked at Spolger, and Spolger looked at Marson, while Roger glanced rapidly from one to the other.

At this moment Judith entered the room.

"Florry is better," she said, advancing; "she is— What, Mr. Axton!"

"Yes; I came down here to see a friend, and thought I would look in," replied Roger as she greeted him.

"I am very glad you did not forget us," she remarked, quietly resuming her seat. "Will you have a cup of tea?"

"Thank you!"

They were seated beside the tea-table, and were quite alone, as Mr. Marson in company with his future son-in-law had left their seats, and were now talking together in low whispers at the end of the room. Judith handed a cup of tea to Roger, and looked at him steadily as he stirred it with a listless expression on his worn face.

"You don't look well," she said at length, dropping her eyes.

"Mental worry," he responded, with a sigh. "I have undergone a good deal since I last saw you."

"In connection with that?" she asked, in a low voice.

"Yes! I received your letter in London, and went at once down to Jarlchester on a walking tour, that is, I made my walking tour an excuse for being there. I stayed there a week, and then received your second letter saying he was coming."

"And he came?" asked Judith, with a quick indrawn breath.

"He did."

"You saw him?" she continued, looking nervously towards the two whispering figures at the end of the room.

"Yes!"

"And got—and got the letters?"

"Of course," said Axton, in a tone of surprise. "I sent them to you—to the post office, as you desired."

"My God!" she said, in a low voice of agony, "I—I have not received them. I went to the post office every day to ask for a packet directed to Miss Judith, but have been told it had not come."

"Good heavens!" said Roger, with a start of surprise, "I hope they have not gone astray—I ought to have registered them."

"If you had I could not have obtained them," replied Miss Varlins, hurriedly; "you forget. The packet was addressed to Miss Judith, and the postmistress knows me so well, I could not have signed any but my own name without causing remark."

"You ought to have allowed me to send them here."

"Yes! and then Florry would have seen them."

"Nonsense!"

"There is always a possibility," said Judith, quickly; "but if these letters have gone astray, what are we to do?"

"Well, if—"

"Hush!"

She laid her hand suddenly on his arm to arrest his speech, for at that moment the voice, thin and peevish, of Mr. Spolger, was heard saying a name:

"Sebastian Melstane."

Judith and Roger both looked at one another, their cheeks pale, their manners agitated, and he was about to speak again when she stopped him for the second time.

"Listen!"

They could hear quite plainly, for the pair at the end of the room had moved unthinkingly near them, and Spolger was talking shrilly to Mr. Marson about the man of whom they were then thinking.

"He came up to see me before he went away. I was very ill, but he would see me, and we had a most agitating interview. Told me that he loved Florry—told me, her affianced husband. Said that she would never marry me—that he could prevent the marriage. Then he insulted me. Yes! held out a box of pills, and asked me if I had any ideas beyond such things. I knocked the box out of his hand and insisted upon his leaving the house. He went, for I was firm—very firm though much agitated. He left the box behind him. Yes, I found it after he was gone, and sent my servant down with it to his boarding-house. Oh, I was terribly agitated. He was so bold. But he won't come back again. No! he won't come back."

"How do you know that?" cried Roger, starting to his feet, in spite of Judith's warning touch.

"What! you were listening," said Mr. Spolger, angrily, coming near to the young man.

"I could hardly help hearing you, seeing you raised your voice," retorted Roger, sharply.

"Most dishonourable! most dishonourable!"

"Sir!"

"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" said Francis Marson, plainly, "you are in my house."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Marson," said Roger, ceremoniously, "I only asked Mr. Spolger a simple question."

"To which he declines to reply," replied Mr. Spolger, coolly.

"Why?"

Judith had risen to her feet and was clinging to Francis Marson's arm, while Roger and Spolger looked steadily at one another. The whole four of them were so intent upon the conversation that they did not see a little figure enter the door and pause on the threshold at the sound of the angry voices.

"You agitate me," said the valetudinarian, angrily. "I am not used to be agitated, sir. I was telling my friend a private story, and you should not have listened.

"I apologise," replied Roger, bowing. "I did not intend to give offence, but I wondered how it was you guessed Melstane would never return."

The little figure stole nearer.

"What do you mean?" asked Spolger, quickly.

Judith leaned on Marson's arm with her face deadly white and her eyes dilated, waiting—waiting for what she dreaded to think.

"I mean about the Jarlchester Mystery."

Mr. Marson said nothing, but with a face as pale as that of the woman on his arm, stared steadily at Roger Axton. At the mention of Jarlchester the figure behind came slowly along until Florry Marson, with a look of terror on her face, stood still as a statue behind her lover.

"I have read in the papers about the Jarlchester Mystery," said Spolger, in an altered tone.

"I guessed as much, and that was the reason you said Melstane would not return."

"No, no! What do you mean?"

"Mean that Sebastian Melstane died at Jarlchester, and you know it."

"Sebastian!"

They all turned round, and there stood Florry, with one hand clasped over her heart, and the other grasping a chair to steady herself by.

"Sebastian," she whispered, with white lips, "is—is he dead?"

Roger turned his head.

"Dead!" she cried, with a cry of terror. "Dead—murdered!" and fell fainting on the floor.

[Chapter 9]

A Terrible Suspicion

Eight o'clock in the evening by the remarkably incorrect clock on the mantelpiece, eight-thirty by Mr. Fanks' watch, which was never wrong, and that gentleman was seated in a private room of the "Foundryman Hotel" waiting the arrival of Roger Axton.

The "Foundryman" was not a first-class hotel, nor was the private room a first-class apartment, but it was comfortable enough, and Mr. Fanks was too much worried in his own mind to pay much attention to his personal wants. He was much disturbed about his old schoolfellow, as everything now seemed to point to Axton as a possible murderer—the conversation at Jarlchester, the evidence of Dr. Japix, the delicately insinuated suspicions of Judas—it seemed as though no doubt could exist but that Roger Axton was the person responsible for the death of Sebastian Melstane.

In spite, however, of all this circumstantial evidence, the detective hoped against hope, and resolved within his own honest heart not to believe Roger guilty until he had heard his explanation of the affair. He knew well that circumstantial evidence was not always to be depended upon, and Axton's prompt arrival in answer to his letter had inspired him with the belief that the young man must be innocent, otherwise he would hardly dare to place himself in a position of such peril. So Mr. Fanks, with the perplexity of his mind showing even in his usually impassive face, sat watch in hand, awaiting Roger's arrival and casting absent glances round the room.

A comfortable room enough in an old-fashioned way! All the furniture seemed to have been made at that primeval period when Ironfields was a village, but here and there some meretricious hotel decoration spoiled the effect of the whole. Heavy mahogany arm-chairs, a heavy mahogany table, a heavy mahogany sideboard stood on a gaudy carpet with a dingy white ground, and sprawling red roses mixed with painfully green leaves. An antique carved mantelpiece, all Cupids and flowers and foliage, but on it a staring square mirror with an ornate gilt frame swathed in yellow gauze, and in front of this a gimcrack French timepiece, with an aggressively loud tick, vividly painted vases of coarse china containing tawdry paper flowers, and two ragged fans of peacock's feathers. The curtains of the one window were drawn, a cheerful fire burned under the antique mantelpiece with its modern barbarisms, and an evil-smelling lamp, with a dull, yellow flame, illuminated the apartment. Mr. Fanks himself sat in a grandfatherly armchair drawn close to the fire, and pondered over the curious aspect of affairs, while the rain outside swept down the crooked street, and the wind howled at the window as if it wanted to get in to the comfortable warmth out of the damp cold.

A knock at the door disturbed the sombre meditations of Octavius, and in response to his answer, Roger walked into the room with a flushed face and a somewhat nervous manner. He did not attempt to shake hands (feeling he had no right to do so until he had explained his previous behaviour at Jarlchester), but sat down near the fire, opposite to his friend, and looked rather defiantly at the impassive face of that gentleman, who gave him a cool nod.

"Well," he said, at length, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, "I've lost no time in answering your letter."

"I'm glad of that, Roger," responded Fanks, gravely; "it gives me great hopes."

"How? That I'm not a criminal, I suppose."

Fanks said nothing, but looked sadly at the suspicious face of the young man.

"Silence gives consent, I see," said Axton, throwing himself back in his chair, with a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm sorry a man I thought my friend should think so ill of me."

"What else can I think, Roger?"

"He calls me Roger," said Axton, with an effort at gaiety. "Why not the prisoner at the bar—the convict in the jail—the secret poisoner?"

"Because I believe you to be none of the three, my friend," replied Fanks, candidly.

Roger looked at him with a sudden flush of shame, and involuntarily held out his hand, but drew it back quickly, before the other could clasp it.

"No, not yet," he said, hastily; "I will not clasp your hand in friendship until I clear myself in your eyes. You demand an explanation. Well, I am here to give it."

"I am glad of that," replied Fanks for the second time. "I'm quite aware," continued Roger, flushing, "that now you are at Ironfields you must be aware that I concealed certain facts in my conversation with you."

"Yes! You said you had not been to Ironfields, and that you did not correspond with Miss Varlins. Both statements were false."

"May I ask on whose authority you speak so confidently?" demanded Axton, coldly.

"Certainly. On the authority of Dr. Japix."

"Japix!" repeated Roger, starting, "do you know him?"

"Yes! I met him some time ago in Manchester, and I renewed my acquaintance with him down here."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted him to analyse those pills found in Melstane's room after his death."

He looked sharply at Roger as he spoke, but that young man met his gaze serenely and without flinching, which seemed to give Fanks great satisfaction, for he withdrew his eyes with a sigh of relief.

"Octavius," said Roger, after a pause, "do you remember our conversation at Jarlchester?"

Mr. Fanks deliberately produced his secretive little note-book and tapped it delicately with his long fingers.

"The conversation is set down here."

"Oh," said Roger, with sardonic politeness. "I was not aware you carried your detective principles so far as to take a note of interviews with your friends."

"I don't do it as a rule," responded Fanks, coolly; "but I had an instinct that our interview might be useful in connection with Melstane's case. I was right, you see. Roger," he cried, with a burst of natural feeling, "why did you not trust me?"

Roger turned away his face, upon which burned a flush of shame.

"Because I was afraid," he replied, in a low voice.

"Of being accused of the murder?"

"Yes!"

"But you can exculpate yourself?" said Fanks, in a startled tone.

"I hope so," replied Roger, gloomily; "but on my word of honour, Fanks, I am innocent. Have you read 'Edwin Drood'?"

"Yes!" responded Fanks, rather puzzled at what appeared to be an irrelevant question, "several times."

"Do you remember what Dickens says in that novel?" said Axton, slowly. "'Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man that, directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.'"

"True, true," answered Fanks, approvingly nodding his head; "such things have occurred before."

"And may occur again," cried Axton, with a look of apprehension. "I know that you suspect me; I know that circumstantial evidence could be brought against me which would put my life in danger; but on my soul, Fanks, I am innocent of Melstane's death."

"I feel certain you are," answered Octavius, gently; "but, as you say, circumstances are strong against you. Tell me everything without reserve, and I may be able to advise you; otherwise, I am completely in the dark."

"I believe you are my friend, Fanks," said Roger, earnestly. "I believe you know me too well to think I would be guilty of such a dreadful crime. Yes; I will tell you everything, and place myself unreservedly in your hands. But first tell me how it is you are so sure it was murder and not suicide!"

"Certainly! It is well we should both be on common ground for the better understanding of your explanation. Regarding the death of this Melstane, I own that at Jarlchester I was half inclined to believe in the suicide theory, and had it not been for the name Ironfields on that pill-box, which gave me a clue, would probably have acquiesced in the verdict of the jury. Following up the clue, however, I went to the chemists, Wosk & Co.'s, where the pills were made up, and discovered that originally there were twelve in the box. I could account for the disposal of six, so that ought to have left a balance of half-a-dozen."

"True! but if I remember, when I counted them at Jarlchester there were eight."

"Exactly! Two extra pills were placed in that box by some unknown person whom I believe to be the murderer of Melstane."

"Why?"

"Because I took the pills to Dr. Japix, and he analysed the whole eight; seven were harmless tonic pills, the eighth compounded of deadly morphia."

"What!" cried Roger, starting to his feet, "and Melstane died of morphia!"

"He did! Now do you understand? The murderer, whoever he was, placed two morphia pills sufficient to cause death in the box. Melstane took one in complete innocence and died, the other was analysed by Japix and found to contain sufficient morphia to kill two men."

"It's wonderful how you have worked it out," said Roger, with hearty admiration; "but how do you connect me with the murder?"

"I did not say I connected you with the murder," replied Fanks, hastily; "I only said there were suspicious circumstances against you. For instance, you had morphia pills in your possession."

"How do you know that?" asked Roger, with a start of surprise.

"Japix told me."

"Yes, and Japix prescribed them," cried Axton, starting to his feet. "I own that does look suspicious; but I can set your mind at rest on that point. Will you permit me to withdraw for a moment?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Roger," said Fanks, angrily; "of course I will."

Axton said nothing, but left the room, leaving Fanks considerably puzzled as to the cause of his departure. In a few minutes, however, he returned and placed in the detective's hands a box of pills.

"There," he said, resuming his seat, "if you count those pills you will find there are eleven. The original number was twelve; I only took one, and finding it did me no good, left the rest in the box. Am I correct?"

"You are," replied Fanks, who had counted the pills; "there are eleven here."

"If you have any further doubts, you can ask Wosk & Co., who made up the pills."

"There is no need. I believe you."