This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

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THE NORTH SHORE
MYSTERY

BY
HENRY FLETCHER

LONDON
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., LIMITED
PATERNOSTER SQUARE

1899

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE CRIME

On August 15, 188–, the public of Sydney were aroused to unusual excitement by the following announcement in the Evening Times of that date—

“A NORTH SHORE MYSTERY.

CRIME OR SUICIDE?

SUDDEN AND UNEXPLAINED DEATH OF A
WELL-KNOWN SPORTSMAN.
STABBED TO DEATH IN HIS BED.

HOW WAS IT DONE?

“The usual quiet of North Shore was this morning rudely dispelled by the alarming rumour that a crime of an unusual kind had been committed in the house of Mrs. Delfosse, Lavender Bay.

“An inquiry proved the report only too well founded.

“Mrs. Delfosse, it may be stated, is a widow lady of the highest respectability, who keeps a boarding establishment of the better kind in a stylish mansion near the Lavender Bay steps. Amongst her boarders was, till this morning, the well-known sportsman, Alexander Booth, more widely known under his nom de guerre as ‘Newmarket.’

“Mr. Booth was married, and shared with his wife a spacious bedroom on the second floor, the window of which has a fine harbour view. At seven o’clock this morning the other inmates of the house were aroused and startled by a succession of loud shrieks coming from this chamber. In haste they rushed to the landing, but in response to calls and knocking on the door there was no reply. The room was as quiet as the grave.

“The door was locked on the inside. It was decided without hesitation to burst it open. This being done, the spectators were horrified to find the senseless form of Mrs. Booth stretched on the floor, and in the bed itself the lifeless corpse of Mr. Booth. Further examination showed the death of this gentleman to be no natural event. The body was resting on the chest and arms, and between the shoulder-blades was buried what appears to be a thin knife or dagger. The doctor and police were immediately sent for, and Mrs. Booth removed to another room. Here after a time she recovered from what proved to be a swoon, but it was only to return again very quickly to the same state. At the time of writing she is somewhat recovered.

“MRS. BOOTH’S STATEMENT.

“Her statement of the event is very brief, and only adds to the strange surroundings of the case—Her husband and herself retired to rest on the Sunday night at their usual hour, she herself locking and bolting the door, as was her custom. She slept well, and was only awakened by a feeling of coldness close to her; she turned and looked at her husband, he was stiff and rigid, the features a waxen pallor and the eyes wide open, staring at her with a frightful horror in them. She sprang from the bed, she screamed, she screamed again; she remembers no more.

“THE SCENE OF THE CRIME.

“Sergeant Burrel was quickly on the scene, and made a careful inspection of the premises and the room itself. It did not require the opinions of a medical expert to convince the ordinary layman that death in this case was not self-inflicted. Apart from the absence of any motive for self-destruction, the blow was such as no man could possibly give to himself.

“The room, as has been stated, is on the second floor, and its one window is protected by upright iron bars five inches apart, indicating that some former tenant had used it as a nursery. There is only the one door to the room, and the chimney, which was carefully inspected, would not allow a passage through its registered grate to an animal larger than a cat. The window itself was found to be shut and fastened inside by the ordinary catch.

“The police are very reticent, but so far no arrest has been made. The inquest will be held to-morrow, when the medical evidence and more details may be disclosed. In the meantime the house is surrounded by crowds of the curious, particularly in the right-of-way in the rear of the premises, from which the window of the room can be seen.

“Great sympathy was expressed at Tattersall’s this morning by Mr. Booth’s fellow metallicians on the news of the sad event reaching the club. No member of the fraternity was more highly respected than the late Alexander Booth, and his death will be a great loss to Sydney sportsmen.”

“ANOTHER CRIME.

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.

THE CITY OFFICE OF ALEXANDER BOOTH
BROKEN OPEN AND ROBBED.

“Before going to press news reaches us that the mystery surrounding the sudden death of Alexander Booth is heightened by the statement of his clerk, David Israel, that on going to the office at the usual hour this morning he found the door ajar, and on further examination in the office, the safe itself open, and bare of all contents, save the books of the firm. He states that his first impression was that his master had arrived before him, and had opened the premises and safe, and was probably somewhere near at hand; but as minutes passed by and no one appeared, he became alarmed. He then locked the place up, and went at once to his master’s private residence, Lavender Bay, only to learn the sad details of his sudden death.

“An important statement made by this witness is that only Mr. Booth had a key to his office safe, which he securely locked on Saturday afternoon. As the safe does not appear to have been tampered with in any way, its unlocking adds to the strange peculiarities surrounding this case.

“David Israel does not know the exact amount of money missing, but estimates it at two or three hundred pounds only. ‘If,’ said he, ‘this had occurred a month ago, the loss would have been very different, as up to that time Mr. Booth made no secret of the fact that he had a large amount—thirty or forty thousand pounds—in securities, locked up in what he considered a burglar and fireproof safe. But the late notorious robberies in the city seemed to have weakened his confidence, for only three weeks ago he transferred the whole of his valuables to the safe keeping of the Bank of New South Wales.’”

The extra special edition of the Evening Times of the same date had the following additional item—

“On learning the details of the office robbery we at once dispatched a reporter to the scene of the crime in Lavender Bay. It will be noted that, according to the statement of David Israel, there was only one key to the city safe, and that was in the possession of his master. If this key was missing, then a motive for what may now be safely called a crime is forthcoming.

“The police authorities had already made a careful inventory of the dead man’s personal effects, and amongst these, taken from the trousers pocket, was a small flat key, said by Mrs. Booth to be, without doubt, that of her husband’s safe.

“So far as the public is concerned, this safety of the key, the abstraction of which was so naturally anticipated by our reporter, makes the mystery still deeper, and banishes what would at first appear to be the motive for at least part of the crime, and the connecting link between the murder on North Shore and the robbery in town.

“Despite the reticence of the police, it is plain to all that they are as puzzled as the public in general to form an acceptable theory as to how the crime was committed.”

CHAPTER II
THE MISFORTUNES OF A B.A. OF LONDON UNIVERSITY

It was Sunday night, or rather in the early darkness of the small hours of Monday morning, that Police-Constable Hobbs wended his slow and deliberate way down the vista of Walker Street. Why the force are trained to step with a measured tread, which proclaims their personality minutes before their arrival, is one of those questions only to be answered by the benevolent supposition that Authority is anxious to warn Criminality that it is coming!

The constable had a dejected air, he put no energy into the trying of doors and windows, and even the sight of a drunk going by short tacks up Junction Street did not restore his animation.

“Never get a chance!” he muttered to himself; “never get a chance. In the force three years and only a common constable and a B.A. of London University, too! What’s the use of education, anyway? Now, if I was only ignorant enough I might be a Member of Parliament, or perhaps a Minister of the Crown. But to spend years of time and bags of money to end as a policeman is enough to make a man sick. If I was only a sergeant now it would not be so bad. But on the Shore ability has no show, never a burglary worth speaking of, and as for a good murder such a thing is unheard of. I really don’t know what possesses the people. If it was not for a few old reliable drunks that I can always run in in case of need, I should have got the sack for incompetency long ago. Over in Sydney, how different! Hardly a night but some chap has a turn, and not a paltry drunk with nothing in his pockets either.”

By this time the speaker had arrived at the top of that long flight of steps that runs down the steep hill at the foot of Walker Street to the wharf at Lavender Bay. Here he paused a while, and his talk to himself took a new turn.

“Shall I or shan’t I have a smoke? It is an hour before I have to meet the Sergeant. Shall I waste it in a profitless round of deserted streets and lanes, or have a quiet whiff in the bushes there? I will put the motion to the meeting, as our chairman used to say. Decidedly I think the ‘ayes’ have it. Then here’s for a smoke.”

Saying this he drew a short black pipe from some hidden pocket, charged it with tobacco, and descending the steps a short distance, turned into the bushes on his left. He was just about to strike a light when the figure of a man started up before him and rushed forward.

Without hesitation the policeman took up the chase thus offered. It was too dark to see very clearly, but the fugitive appeared to be a young active man carrying a bag. Now such a character does not go tearing around a quiet suburb like North Shore at four o’clock in the morning with an honest motive. So at least thought P.-C. Hobbs, and he shouted “Stop!” and went at his best handicap speed to overtake the fugitive. But this person, far from stopping or losing in the race, had now turned some corner of stone or bush, and when the constable came out in the open ground beyond the bushes he found his prey had fled.

Not a sound, not a sign. The earth might have closed on him.

More disconsolate than ever, Hobbs retraced his steps.

“Just my luck—the same old luck! The only kind of a chance I have had for a month, and it slips through my fingers.”

Going not far from the steps he sat concealed in the bushes, and puffed his pipe. And it seemed to him as he gazed through the fumes of Black Jack, that his previous view of things had been pessimistic—his turn would come some day. North Shore could not for ever remain so ferociously virtuous. A time might come when theft, even, perhaps, a good murder might occur on his beat. And then people would learn that it was not for nothing that he had qualified as B.A. at London University.

The dusky light and cold air of dawn now made our philosopher consider the time come to proceed on his round. Already fish-buyers and news-vendors were descending the steps to proceed by the first boat. The steamer was at the wharf puffing out steam as Hobbs looked down on her from the steps.

But stay! Who is that who rushes out from the bushes next the baths and dives at full speed down the slope?

It is THE MAN WITH THE BAG!

Like a flash our policeman again starts in pursuit. This time he says to himself, “The man is mine!”

Vain hope! Even as he rushes into the waiting-room the ferry-boat has cast off and left the wharf. He sees the man with the bag make a desperate leap over a yawning chasm of green sea and white foam, and land safely on the deck. And when he arrives it is only to be greeted by the derisive jeers of the little crowd of passengers.

Slowly he returns up the steps. Shall he report the matter to the Sergeant? It might gain him credit, and the information might prove of use. On the other hand, the Sergeant might want to know what he wanted at that part of his beat at that particular time. And the question would be awkward.

This is how it came about that the police records are bare of any mention of the vain chase by P.-C. Hobbs of a suspicious character carrying a bag.

CHAPTER III
MRS. HOBBS

It was the custom of Mr. Hobbs when he had been on night duty to sleep till twelve noon on the following day, when he would awaken with a punctuality at the dinner hour which would shame the fidelity of an alarm clock. What was his surprise then to have his slumbers rudely disturbed at ten o’clock by the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Hobbs.

“What’s the matter, Bell?”

“Wake up, you! Here’s news! Who’d have thought it! Why half the Shore might be murdered for all you care!”

“What’s that about murdering?”

“Why, the baker boy just told me that at Mrs. Delfosse’s, down on the Point, three of the boarders, if not more, were murdered in their beds last night. The whole neighbourhood is there, and there is such a crowd you can hardly get by. And that is your beat, too—I should just like to know where you were last night? I’ll be bound packed away in some corner, smoking. You need not shake your head. I know you. Neither use nor ornament. Whatever the Government sees in you to pay you wages I can’t think.”

“Now, do keep quiet, Bell, and let a fellow have a show. You have got hold of some cock-and-bull story that will melt down in the end to a broken window or a drunken man beating his wife, or some such foolery.”

“No such thing! You just dress and pack off to the station. You may be wanted, and how can you get a chance to show your ability if you are out of the way? A clever man like you only a common constable! I say it’s a disgrace. You should speak up, and put yourself forward.”

* * * * *

Two hours later Mr. Hobbs returned.

“You were partly right for a wonder, Bell. One man has been murdered, and a very strange case it is, too.”

And then he told in detail to his wife those events that have been related.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Hobbs. “What shall we have next? And you call that a mystery? Why it is as plain as the nose on your face. The woman killed him, of course! Who else could have done it? That fainting or swooning is all moonshine. Why I could faint twenty times a day if I wanted to. I know that Mrs. Booth—knew her before she was married. A barmaid in a sixpenny bar. That will tell you what she is. Why I would not trust the life of a cat to one of those creatures. Faint, indeed! It wants a fool of a man to be taken in by that sort of humbug.”

“That’s just what Detective Dobell says; he’s got the case in hand. Sent for him to Sydney. As though we were all fools here. Just my luck again! He seems to think there is no doubt about it, and that all the trouble will be to hunt up the corroborative evidence against her.”

“Is that Dobell, the Sydney detective, that took your last chance from you?”

“Yes, that’s the man.”

“Then, in my opinion, he’s a fool! If he said it was the woman did it, then you can make up your mind he is wrong. Is it likely, now, that a woman that wanted to kill her husband, would get a dagger and stab him in his sleep? Suppose I wanted to kill you now, should I go about it like that? No indeed! I should buy some ‘Rough on Rats,’ or something of that kind, and put it in your tea. That is our way. It is only women on the stage that use knives or daggers. You take my advice, and pay no attention at all to what that Dobell says. That woman no more committed that deed than I did myself.”

“But you were positive only five minutes ago that she had!”

“I said no such thing, and if you were not the most aggravating man in the world you would not dare to say so. That is always your way. Trying to make out I contradict myself, when you are too daft to know what to say. If you would only take my advice for once you would—”

“What?”

“Just do a bit of detective work on the quiet. This affair will make a great noise, and the man who finds out the riddle will not be that thick-head Dobell, take my word for it. While all these wiseacres are busy over the woman, you just take another track. Hunt up their history, hers and his. You say that there was no robbery. If so, what was it done for? Who would his death benefit? Trust a woman’s judgment. I’d back her to find more out about a case in five minutes than one of you tall muddle-heads in a week.”

“It’s all very well to talk, Bell. If it comes to that I give you best. But how should a woman who has never been out of Sydney in her life understand these things? Now, I have had the advantage of a University education in the metropolis of the world—a B.A. of London.”

“Well, Mr. B.A., if you are so clever just go into the back yard and chop some wood for the stove if you expect to have your tea.”

The B.A. went, and as he chopped he inwardly resolved that the advice of his wife was good; that much might be gained and nothing lost by following it. Of a truth, that Dobell did hold his nose a trifle too high—a man who could not construe a page of Latin to save his life.

“Are you going to do what I say about that case?” screamed out Mrs. Hobbs from the kitchen.

Mr. Hobbs’ only reply as he took in an armful of billets was to mutter—

“Bell, you’re a fool?”

* * * * *

On resuming duty some hours later, Mr. Hobbs found himself detailed for the special service of watching Mrs. Booth.

CHAPTER IV
THE BOARDING-HOUSE AND BOARDERS

Mrs. Delfosse had “seen better days.” How it is that the profession of boarding-house keeping is for ever associated with a vista of past splendours history recordeth not. Other people hide past grandeur in the oblivion of silence, or shroud their social degeneracy even from their nearest friends. But the boarding-house keeper trumpets her past Arabian opulence from every vantage place her limited surroundings afford.

The house occupied by Mrs. Delfosse was one of a terrace. Not a mean lath-and-plaster, run-up-while-you-wait structure, but a fine substantial building that had, of course, ruined the innocent contractor who erected it. This house itself had, according to Mrs. Delfosse, been the scene of her former life of luxurious ease, in fact, until that fatal date when the late Captain Delfosse sailed on his last trip to America. There were some brutes who inwardly congratulated the luck of the Captain in never coming back, but the lady was inconsolable.

As usual in such cases, in the course of time she advertised for a few select boarders. What “select” meant was never explained, except it might mean that the tariff and accommodation were above the average.

There were five boarders—two city men on the first floor, Mr. and Mrs. Booth on the second floor back, and Professor Norris (an old friend of Mrs. Booth) on the second floor front.

The Booths, by the way, were only counted as temporary lodgers, as they had a fine house of their own in course of erection at Neutral Bay, and were merely waiting its completion to move.

When P.-C. Hobbs came on duty in plain clothes and relieved his brother officer on watch in front of Mrs. Delfosse’s boarding-house, he was just in time to overhear that lady recounting her griefs to a little gentleman whose outward egress she barred with her ample form in the front doorway.

“What shall I do, doctor? I am ruined, entirely ruined! To think of people coming and getting murdered in a house of mine, and me been here these fifteen years! It’s not as though they were permanents! And I who have always been so respected! Oh, little did my poor dear captain think I should ever come to this? The first floors have gone, and two better boarders no one could wish for; not paltry city clerks, but merchants, real merchants, and paid like the bank. And they left at once, never thinking of me. No one thinks of me. No one has a thought for a poor widow, left without resources. I call it shameful. There ought to be a law to prevent it. And who do you think will come and take rooms in a house where a man has been murdered? If it was only a suicide now, it would not be so bad. I have known persons in the best of families make away with themselves. But I’m ruined, ruined! I shall come to starve on the streets, I’m sure!”

The little doctor, who was fidgeting to get away, here interposed—

“Why not leave this house and take another?”

“I have thought of that; but look at the expense, and how would I get other rooms to fit the carpets, and stairs to suit the matting, let alone all the blinds and rollers? Now, just look at that oilcloth—”

As Mrs. Delfosse turned to point out the article mentioned, the doctor saw an opening, darted through, and was yards up the street before the lady could draw breath.

“Just like all the others. All for self; all for his own business. Not a thought for me. No one thinks of me.”

During this time, in the sitting-room of the same house, another interview was taking place. A middle-aged gentleman, with a strong resemblance to Shakespeare, in a nineteenth century coat and trousers, and long waving hair, was seated. This was Professor Norris. Why “Professor,” was never very clear, except it might be the long hair.

A young woman, tall, well-shaped, if you exclude her pinched-in waist, a complexion of strawberries and cream, blue eyes to match her fair hair, a nose of no particular merit, lips blood red, and a set of white teeth—if they were all real—as perfect and regular as the artificial article. There was the general plumpness and freshness about this young lady that the French term Beauty de Diable, and a sparkle in her eyes at times that would set on fire, not chips, as other sparks do, but masculine hearts.

This was Mrs. Booth—Bertha Booth.

She was raging up and down the room, her eyes red with crying, and she moaned and sobbed as she walked—

“I wish I were dead! I do. Oh, Alec; poor, dear Alec. It is horrible! horrible! I know I shall go mad. If I sit still even for a minute, I can feel the cold thing touching me again. Oh, why did I get married? We were very happy before, Professor! Or why did I not marry you, as you wanted me to? I am sure no one would have wanted to kill you. And the way he looked! I’m sure I shall never forget the face—it haunts me. And we had a few words yesterday, and we never had time even to make it up. And who did it—and how was it done? Tell me, Professor. I’m sure you must know—you know so many things. Don’t shake your head. I am certain you are keeping something back. But I will know! I ought to know! I’m his wife! And why am I not killed too? I wish I had been; it would have saved me hours of misery, for I shall die of it. I know I shall die of it.”

“Try to be calm, Bertha; be a brave woman. Time will heal all, reveal all; and remember that to-morrow there will be the inquest, and you will have to attend.”

“I can’t go. I’m not fit to go. It is too much. How can they expect me, who am nearly out of my mind with this horror, to go to their dreadful inquest?”

“But try and bear up, my dear. I will be with you. You will not be alone.”

“And I have no dress to wear,” Bertha murmured.

“No dress! Why you have heaps of dresses.”

“No black dress. But there, you are a man, or you would know at once I cannot go out in public till I have my weeds.”

“If that is the trouble, you can easily order all you want from Sydney.”

“But ready made! You know how I hate the shop costumes. You can always see what they are. Madame Beaumont shall make it; I really believe she is the only woman who can make a dress in Sydney. And she takes two days.”

“Really, my dear Bertha, you must be mad. Do you think they will adjourn the inquest two days for you to have a dress made?”

“I don’t care. They can kill me if they like. I wish I was dead.”

“I shall go to Farmer’s, and tell them to send over some costumes for you to choose.”

“I won’t look at them.”

He stood up to go. He had half crossed the room when she called him back softly—

“Pro?”—and she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. “Tell them I must have a waistcoat body.”

At this moment there was a knock on the door. Bertha hastily turned to a mirror to arrange her hair, before saying “Come in.”

The new arrival was a young man, well but loudly dressed, clean shaved, and well groomed. He entered quietly, respectfully.

“As an old friend, hearing the sad news, I called to see if I could be of any use in what must be a most trying time.”

“Oh, Huey, is that you? Sit down, sit down. I’m nearly mad. Thank you for calling. You can go, Pro, and mind you remember.”

The Professor nodded to the visitor and left the room.

“Is it true, Bertha—Mrs. Booth, I should say—all this I read in the evening paper?” said the visitor as he drew nearer to that lady on the door closing.

“What the papers say, I don’t know, but they cannot say what is more horrible, more dreadful, than the truth!”

And then Bertha, at great length, with interjected sobs and disjointed fragments of narrative, related the tragedy of the morning.

Huey, or, to give him his name in full, Hubert Gosper, listened sympathetically, wondering perhaps somewhat, how, after such a shock, she had power to bring her mind to even an inconsequential narrative.

“What do you think of it?” she asked him. “The Professor will say nothing, but look awfully wise, like a magpie on a fence. How was it done—how could it be done? Could Alec have done it himself? He never told me his affairs. Do you know if he was troubled about them? It’s the uncertainty that’s so dreadful. People that did not know us might even think I had something to do with it.”

“You will pardon me, I hope, what I am going to say, and do not jump at a conclusion at once. But I, who know you both, am inclined to think you had something to do with it.”

“What! I?”

“Now don’t take fright in that way. According to what you say, the room is only to be entered by the door, and you locked and bolted that; so there remains only two possibilities—either that Alec, by some unheard-of means, stabbed himself, or that you did the deed.”

“But that is monstrous!”

“Of course, but the point has to be considered. There is still another supposition. You might have opened the door to a third person, and afterwards reclosed it.”

“Why, that is as bad as the other!”

“In the ordinary way, yes. But it chanced that I have just been reading some experiments in hypnotism, by which strange results are sometimes obtained by one mind unconsciously over another. You, I believe, in former times were often mesmerized, and, it occurred to me at once, would readily yield to the evil desires, unknowingly, of some designing scoundrel. In such a case, I say again, you may have had something to do with your husband’s death.”

“But who could do such a thing? Besides, I know no designing scoundrel. Your guess is worse than nothing at all. It is foolishness.”

Nevertheless, the face of Mrs. Booth underwent a great change. She was evidently “put darkly in doubt,” and though she spoke in bold confidence, her companion clearly saw his shot had told.

“But what you say is unnatural—horrible! All the mesmerists or hypnotists in the world cannot make a wife kill her husband and not know it. And as for what is in the newspapers, they are made up of a pack of lies, and you ought to know it as well as anybody, for did you not use to work on one?”

“It may be so. I may be wrong. Only you wanted to know a possible way that this thing might have happened, and I gave the only explanation that occurred to me. Now tell me, what do you think?”

But poor Bertha could not tell. She had no theory. Her mind was off on a new chase, weaving all the possibilities out of this new idea which she had openly scorned. It was with almost a vacant air she bade Mr. Gosper good-bye, and as the door closed she sank down on the floor, moaning.

The cup of her affliction was running over.

“The scoundrel! Yet he would not dare. It cannot be true! Old Pro! I can never believe it! And yet—and yet!”

* * * * *

As Mr. Gosper was crossing Circular Quay on his return journey he met the Professor, who was coming back from his errand.

“Have a wine, old man?”

“Thank you, I seldom take anything, and I am anxious to be back to Bertha.”

“Oh, she’s first-rate—‘as well as can be expected,’ as the reports have it. Come along. It will cheer you up.”

With evident reluctance the Professor consented, and the two entered the private bar of the Paragon, Huey leading the way to a quiet corner, and with glasses before them, started the conversation.

“This affair looks bad, Professor.”

“How so?”

“I mean for our mutual friend, Mrs. Booth.”

“Yes; her husband’s death will be a sad loss to her.”

“Oh, that is not what I am thinking of. Husbands are plenty enough for a woman with her money and beauty. It’s her connection with the affair that troubles me.”

“In what way?”

“Why, don’t you see, man? The law will demand an explanation, and perhaps a victim, and the law that can only see as far as the end of its nose will reason, ‘Here is a room securely locked up with two persons in it. One of these persons is found dead by a wound not self-inflicted. Inference, the other person must have done it.’”

“Good God! You don’t think they will dare to accuse her?”

“Think! It is no thinking matter. Sydney is saying nothing else. On the ferry-boat, as elsewhere, they were talking of nothing but that, and the wonder was why Mrs. Booth was not already arrested.”

“But this is monstrous! You know it’s monstrous, Mr. Gosper. The very shock of such a charge might endanger Bertha’s reason, or even her life!”

“That may be true; but how will you prevent it? What is your own private opinion on the mystery? Surely you have formed one?”

“No, I have not. What you term the popular verdict is, of course, out of the question with me, who know her so well; but I have thought out no theory yet that will fit the case. I can recall no incident, in fact or fiction, of this description. Poe’s History of the Rue Morgue is the nearest in point I can call to mind. But then there was an open window.”

“That was the story of an ourang-outang climbing a waterspout to an open window and throwing one woman out, pushing the other up a chimney, and then escaping, was it not?”

“Yes; something of that kind. But even, as is sometimes maintained, if Fiction is only a prelude to Fact, the barred and fastened window in this case close that explanation.”

“Well, if you must go,” said Huey, for the Professor was rising, “remember to send for me at any time, if I can help either you or Mrs. Booth.”

Not admitting it even to himself, a dreadful fear had pricked the heart of the Professor. That Bertha could do such a deed was impossible, and yet women were strange creatures. Who could pretend to have sounded to the innermost depths of even one? And he would stake his life yes, his life—on her innocence. But even if it was so, and he braced his mind to face that awful contingency, he would not desert her. “A moment of passion—who is accountable for it? And, say what you will, that Alec was little better than a brute. It was in one sense a good riddance.” At all hazards he would stick to her, and, above all, if she was accused he would fight her battle. It is not the innocent who want friends; it is the guilty. And, guilty or innocent, he would stand by her.

So the thoughts chased through his mind as the ferry-boat crossed Sydney Harbour in the moonlight of a bright summer’s night. He did not heed the scene, familiar to him, of the grey indented shore, dotted with white house fronts and clothed with sombre foliage, or the jutting headlands, softening their dark outlines till in the distant background South Head was a soft grey that melted into the sky, and its turning light shone on the lapping water like a radiance. He did not heed the mirrored lights of Sydney Cove, or the small craft that, with half-drawn sail, drifted like shadows on the shining water. He did not heed the talk of the crowded boat, nor, passing M‘Mahon’s Point wharf, did he hear a scream, as from a distance, and a rush of eager feet to the stern of the vessel.

CHAPTER V
CONSTABLE HOBBS DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

Constable Hobbs, on duty outside Mrs. Delfosse’s, had for a long time nothing to break the monotony of his watch. He allowed the Professor to pass, knowing him well. Mr. Gosper puzzled him. He concluded at once he was not a resident of the Shore; he certainly did not know him as such, yet he had a kind of inward conviction he had seen him before, but where, he could not call to mind. But the thought did not trouble him. He met, every day, people he had met before, without being able, or caring for that matter, to locate the time and place.

It had been some time dark when the meditations of a quiet smoke were interrupted by the opening of the front door, and the coming out of a lady.

“It is her; what the dickens is she up to!”

It was indeed Bertha. Bertha, hysterical, nearly mad. To be in the house was no longer endurable, she was stifled, choked. The suggestion of Huey had grown in her mind till her reason seemed to forsake her. A hundred fancies that she could not brush aside rose up as threatening witnesses.

“The Professor had always wanted to marry her, that was certain; so who but he could desire the death of Alec? Who but he could control her will, unknown to her? He must have made her open the door.”

So her mind ran on. She left the house, and walked down the road, heedless where she went, and the precautions of Mr. Hobbs to be unobserved in his following was so much skill thrown away. He noted that she walked unsteadily, and, with his varied experience in “drunks,” the suggestion of partial intoxication occurred to him. To his credit, he put the thought aside as only worthy of an ignorant member of the force.

Evidently, he said to himself, she is going somewhere of importance, or she would hardly go at night, and by herself such a day as this has been for her. No doubt I shall now gain a clue.

“Cheer up, old man,” he said to himself; “‘there is a tide in the affairs of man,’ etc. Now is your chance; this is the first good case you have had a hand in. The ladder of promotion is before you. Climb!”

Bertha by this time had descended the steep path that leads to M‘Mahon’s Point wharf.

“The devil!” said Hobbs. “It seems she means to go to Sydney. What if she is really guilty, and means to give us the slip? I will close up.”

Once, twice, three times Bertha paced the wharf, her eyes bent on the water with a hungry longing.

She made a step forward.

“Be careful!” sang out the warning voice of the constable.

But, with a wild cry, Bertha threw up her arms and plunged down. There was a splash, a few bubbles, and a little whirl in the waves as constable Hobbs rushed forward.

“Well, I’m damned! Just my luck!” he exclaimed, as he threw off his coat and hat, and with a wild sweep of his arms dived into the harbour.

* * * * *

The Evening Times, of August 16, contained the following double-headed paragraph in its middle page—

“FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS IN THE NORTH SHORE MYSTERY.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

ATTEMPTED SUICIDE OF MRS. BOOTH, AND
GALLANT RESCUE BY ONE OF THE
POLICE FORCE.

PORTRAIT AND BIOGRAPHY OF THE HERO,
POLICE-CONSTABLE HOBBS.

“Never perhaps in the history of the colony has a crime claimed such universal interest, and aroused such general curiosity, as the so-called North Shore mystery. On train, boat, or ’bus, or wherever men are gathered together, it forms the sole and engrossing topic of conversation. Nearly every man one meets considers himself a born detective, and has a solution of the mystery at his fingers’ ends. Unfortunately, however, hardly two of three solutions agree, either as to the personality of the criminal or the method of the crime.

“An unexpected development was added to the already complicated skein by the attempted suicide last night of Mrs. Booth. It appears, from reports received, that Police-Constable Hobbs had been stationed on duty by the authorities to watch the house of Mrs. Delfosse, the scene of the crime, his orders being to note the doings of the inmates. That this precaution was a wise one was shown by the sequel.

“Late in the evening, after a gentleman, a stranger to the constable, had called at the house and again departed, the constable’s attention was aroused by the front door opening, and Mrs. Booth, with her outdoor garments on, leaving the house and walking towards Blue’s Point. Needless to say, the constable followed in her wake. According to his statement, her movements struck him as being, to say the least, very strange. Her walk was unsteady and erratic, and his first impression was that she was intoxicated; but, being a man of more than average intelligence, he soon scouted this idea, and came to the more natural conclusion that the poor lady, as was very natural, was suffering from strong excitement.

“After some hesitation Mrs. Booth took the path leading to the ferry at M‘Mahon’s Point, and Police-Constable Hobbs at once concluded that her intention was to take the incoming boat with the object of going to Sydney or Milson’s Point. What was his astonishment to see her step forward on the wharf, and with what looked like a determined plunge, jump into the water. Without a moment’s hesitation the constable ran forward, and, rapidly divesting himself of his hat and heavy tunic, jumped in after her. So quick was he that Mrs. Booth had barely come to the surface ere her form was grasped, and fortunately the ferry steamer was close at hand to provide a rope. By this time, however, Mr. Hobbs had already landed on the wharf, neither he nor Mrs. Booth being much the worse for their immersion. Mrs. Booth was promptly removed to her house, where she remains under surveillance.

“The numerous witnesses to this act of gallantry were unanimous in their chorus of praise of the pluck shown by the hero, and we are enabled by the kindness of Mrs. Hobbs to furnish the following short account of her husband—Police-Constable Hobbs is a native of Bethnal Green, London, England. He has always been noted for courage and resolution, this being the third life he has saved from drowning. He is, moreover, a man of education, being a B.A. of London University, and qualified by his mental attainments for a far higher position than that at present held by him. It is one of the anomalies of Colonial life, that some of our best men have to commence life in such subordinate positions as that held by Police-Constable Hobbs. As a swimmer he is no mean exponent, having been for three years previous to leaving the old country champion and captain of the Serpentine Swimming Club; as an athlete he had few equals, either at quoits or the more active game of rounders. We certainly think the attention of the authorities should be drawn—more particularly the Royal Humane Society—to the meritorious conduct of this officer. True courage and ability such as his call for more than the usual perfunctory meed of thanks.

“As to the crime itself, we have no further development to make public. Speculation is rife, and the police, as usual, are said to ‘have a clue.’ If so, they preserve a most frigid reticence on the point. During the day the rear and front of the house have been surrounded by the customary gaping crowd, and it has been found necessary to detail an additional constable to preserve order in the neighbourhood. The inquest, which was to have been held to-day, has been postponed until to-morrow to allow of the more perfect recovery of Mrs. Booth.”

* * * * *

In consideration of his immersion in the harbour, P.-C. Hobbs was allowed a day off from his duties, and he readily seized the opportunity to pursue his investigations as to the origin of the crime.

The view of his wife, that the murder was not a woman’s murder, strongly influenced him. He was further impressed in Mrs. Booth’s favour by the fact that popular opinion, backed by Detective Dobell, generally condemned her. Popular opinion, said Mr. Hobbs to himself, is an ass. It sees no further than the end of its nose. Because the door was locked and bolted, then, forsooth, the woman must be guilty. But would a guilty person have so locked and bolted the door? Would they not rather have left it open so as to admit others to suspicion, and not fastened it, and suspicion too, on themselves? For the crime was premeditated, the knife was not a common one, and must have been procured on purpose by some person versed in anatomy. It was, in fact, more of a skewer than a knife, such a skewer as is used in ham and beef shops to join together the pieces of brisket.

That door unfastened would have meant the inclusion of the whole household in the range of doubt—a sharing of the burden of suspicion that would be comparatively light to bear. Of course, it was true that even the cleverest criminals often committed the greatest blunders, and such might be the case in the present instance. But was it not more reasonable to suppose that the criminal had himself refastened the door; the lock was a common one, and worked easily; a pair of pliers to grasp it, with the help of a skeleton key, would have both unlocked and locked it from the outside. Then there was the bolt. Certainly that was a puzzle, but one that could be solved must be solved.

At any rate, he would go to Sydney and interview these boarders; and David Israel, the clerk, his statement required sifting. It was a curious accident if these two crimes were not in some way connected. He found the first address in his pocket-book—

SCHNIDER BROTHERS,
Clarence Street,

Wholesale Importers of Jewellery and
Fancy Goods.

A few minutes’ walk took him to Clarence Street, and in answer to his inquiry he was promptly ushered into a back office, where two fair gentlemen were seated at a huge desk.

“Are you the Messrs. Schnider?”

“Ve are,” said the elder, promptly turning round. “Vat can we have ze pleasure of doing for you?”

“I am in the Police Department,” replied Mr. Hobbs, handing over his card, “and I have called for such information as you can give relative to the crime committed at your lodgings.”

“Ah! Dat vas vat I say to my brothers. Ve shall have some policemans round to ask us shoost nothings at all.”

“Did you know much of Mr. and Mrs. Booth?”

“No; ve knows very little. Ve sees them zometimes at dinner; ve speak to them English—ve love the language—but they not speak much to us, and they speak the English very padly. They do not understand what you call the idiom, so we get tired. Ve speak not much to them; ve fear to speak like them. Ah, Sydney is bad for the English language. Not like in Shermany; there they speak her particularly. I hear no good speaking in zis country. They learn the English like some parrots, not like in Shermany, vere ve learn at school. It is much shame to you.”

“Did you notice if Mr. and Mrs. Booth were friendly together? Did they have disputes? Was she a good wife?

“Not so good vife as we have in Shermany. There the frau, she stop home all ze day, do all ze work of ze home, and ze good man, when he have dinner, go to the beer garden and drink twenty, thirty bock, and when he come home a little bit what you call tipsy, the good frau she help him to bed, and not say one little word. Not like as here, vere the vife goes out to valk about half ze day. It was bad, very bad!”

“I am sorry to interrupt you, but what I wish to know is not about Germany, but about this business of the murder. Have you any reason to think Mrs. Booth had any ill-feeling towards her husband?”

“Ve know nothings, shoost nothings at all about zese peoples. They speak, I tell you, the English very padly, not like as in Shermany.”

“Damn Shermany,” said P.-C. Hobbs to himself, as he promptly bowed himself out. “They are either a pair of fools or a pair of rogues, trying to bluff me with gammon.”

But he did not escape so quickly as he expected. After a hurried consultation together, one of the partners stepped forward.

“Do not go for a little minute. This, I tink, is the first time zat you see our store. We always like to make some little present to our new friends. Come zis vay. Come zis vay.” And the German led the way to the back premises, where on numerous shelves a host of packets and cardboard boxes were stored, having for the most part fastened on the outside a sample of the goods within. With much preliminary graciousness the merchant went to a small box and produced a common wooden pipe, worth, perhaps, twopence, and, presenting it to Mr. Hobbs, he said—

“You will keep that, my friend. It is vat you call ze keepsake. That is vone good pipe—vone very good pipe; same as they smoke in Shermany. If you will show zat pipe to your friends it shall do us some good in the pisiness!”

Pocketing the present, the constable made his way out.

“Now for the third man, the acknowledged friend of Mrs. Booth—Professor Norris, Park Street, is the address, I think. Yes, it is Park Street.”

The shop was easily found, a small narrow-windowed place with this sign written in large letters across the front—

PROFESSOR NORRIS, SCIENTIFIC
FOOTIST.

The Past, The Present, The Future.

Characters Delineated by the Marvellous Science—The
Discovery of Professor Norris—The Secret of Life Long
Hidden Under Foot Now First Revealed. Phrenology,
Physiognomy, and Palmistry Entirely Superseded by
the Up-to-date Science, Footology.

“Man, Know Your Feet.”

Do not Waste Your Old Boots, but Send One Along
with Five Shillings in Stamps for Full Character Chart.

The greater part of this window was occupied by a mammoth foot in plaster of Paris, and P.-C. Hobbs regarded it curiously. A large bump, like a bunion, on the big toe, was marked, “Mount of Venus.” A zigzag track down the instep, looking like the plan of the river Murray, as seen on maps, was designated, “Line of Life.”

“What humbug will they be up to next?” exclaimed Hobbs, as he regarded this curiosity.

In answer to his inquiry the attendant at the counter informed him that the Professor had not arrived that day, and had sent a message saying he should not come till the next morning.

“An important engagement, no doubt,” added the speaker. “The Professor is often summoned to attend some of the highest families.”

“To read their feet?”

“Of course. You see, it’s all the rage now. The foot, unlike the hand, is not distorted by work and hard wear. Being used solely to tread with, it retains all Nature’s revelations in their pristine purity. Fortunes are constantly made by those who are wise enough to consult the future in their feet, and in love and matrimony none should be without their guidance. Shall I make an appointment with you to meet the Professor—your feet appear to be really interesting? The Professor loves his work, and I am sure he would be pleased to see you.”

“No, thank you, young man. I called on other matters. Perhaps I can find your master at his private address. Good-day.”

CHAPTER VI
MRS. BOOTH COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

After his day’s round, Mr. Hobbs returned home to his tea. For this meal he was glad to see a plate of pink prawns on the table. If he had one weakness of the epicure, it was in the direction of prawns, and Mrs. Hobbs, when in a specially good humour, was wont to indulge him. This happened with her perhaps the more rarely, as her husband was wont on these occasions, while praising the quality of the prawns, which he rated as being nearly equal to Gravesend shrimps, to inveigh against Colonial provisions generally.

“The meat was not equal to English meat—not the flavour—the vegetables were tasteless, and the fruit lacking in juice.”

These remarks on the products of her native land made Mrs. Hobbs mad and restive.

“If everything was so good in England, why in the name of fortune did you leave it?”

“I wish I had not, and that’s the truth,” Mr. Hobbs would reply.

“And I wish so too!” would retort his good lady.

Then would follow a domestic squall, during which Mrs. Hobbs launched forth in voluble Anglo-Saxon on the worthlessness of men in general, and this one in particular.

In the meantime her husband leisurely ate up the prawns.

This night was an exception. The meal passed without the customary equinoctial, and Mrs. Hobbs got her fair share of the shrimps.

“I can tell you what it is, Tom, if you go jumping in the water again with your uniform clothes on, and expect me to wash them and get them decent, you are very much mistaken; somebody else may do them, I won’t. Such a job, with all the nasty salt water in them. If that brazen-faced hussy wants to drown herself let her. Good riddance, I say, to bad rubbish. If it had been me, now, you would not have been so quick, I’ll be bound.”

“Now, draw it mild, Bell! It was you that were taking her part only last night.”

“How dare you say that, you aggravating man! Did I not say at once that it was she that killed her husband, and now are not my words proved true? Has not her guilty conscience driven her to try and drown herself? Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Don’t be so hasty; it proves nothing of the sort. You will admit that if she is the criminal, she must be a most daring and cold-blooded one. Now, daring criminals, particularly women criminals, are hardly ever known to display remorse of any kind. The mind of an innocent woman is only too likely to be upset by such a day as that passed by Mrs. Booth, but a criminal having expected it would remain quite unmoved.”

“So you still think she is innocent?”

“I am more convinced than ever.”

“And what have you done to-day?”

“To commence at the beginning—I thought the matter well over last night. You will remember that the doctor said the knife entering the back near the spine, between the ribs, pierced the heart, and caused instantaneous death; but violent muscular movements of the limbs and body were likely to have occurred for some moments afterwards, and the stab could not have been self-inflicted. I felt by no means sure of that. It seemed unlikely, certainly; but any solution of this problem must be an unlikely one, and this appeared at least as feasible and plausible as any. Then I tried to imagine how Mr. Booth could have carried out his purpose. The knife, as you know, had no proper handle, but only the thin pointed haft. Suppose he had stuck it in his bed, raised himself, and fallen backwards on the point, and then, in his pain, turned over—this would account for his position?”

“Why, of course, that’s it, Tom! It’s as plain as possible! Why, you have got more sense than I gave you credit for!”

“But that is not it, Bell. I have carefully examined the bed and the sheet he was lying on, and there is no perforation, such as the haft must have made. Giving up this idea, I had to find another solution. If Mrs. Booth was not the criminal, but some third party, who was that criminal likely to be? Clearly some one resident in the house; this was the more likely. They would be on the spot, and be acquainted with all the small details necessary to execute such a deed undetected. At the same time, it must not be overlooked that a person capable of entering, undisturbed, one locked room, might, perhaps, just as easily have entered a locked-up house.

“I considered the inmates in this order—There was Mrs. Delfosse, the landlady. She is a respectable lady, and known on the Shore for years. In regard to her, the crime could bring no conceivable benefit. Mr. Booth was almost a stranger to her, and his tragic death is likely to prove a serious loss, so I rule her out of the possibles. Next there is the servant girl. Here I thought there might be a clue. These betting men are mostly a fast lot; perhaps Booth had been tampering with her. But Eliza Smith is a quiet, decent girl, engaged to be married to a carpenter, and when she assured me Mr. Booth had not spoken half-a-dozen times to her in his life, I believed her. So I ruled her out. Then there are the other boarders—the two Germans, the brothers Schnider, on the first floor. I said to myself, ‘These foreign fellows are often the kind of men to fancy other men’s wives, and to take strange means to gratify their fancy.’

“Acting on this idea, I called on these gentlemen in town. They seem to be in a good way of business, fine warehouse, clerks, and all the rest of it; but the men themselves are a pair of ugly yellow devils, with big fat noses. Supposing Mrs. Booth to be a party to an intrigue with one of them, to say the least she has very bad taste. But then I reflected that women are very capricious.”

“Not more than men, I’m sure!”

“And, though the late Mr. Booth was at least in appearance worth half-a-dozen of these German sauerkrauts, yet we have the memorable example of Hamlet’s mother, that ugliness itself is sometimes an attraction to feminine taste.”

“Who was that Mrs. Hamlet? Did she live on the Shore? I never heard of her.”

“No, she is a character in a play.”

“Written by a man, I suppose?”

“Yes; William Shakespeare.”

“That explains it. I knew it would take a man to write foolery like that! And what did those Germans tell you?”

“I could get nothing out of them. They talked like two idiots, so I left them in disgust. But, coming home, and thinking the matter over in my mind, I began to doubt if they had not been acting a part with me to try perhaps to throw me off the scent. Is it likely now, that two dunderheads such as they pretended to be, could successfully carry on a Sydney wholesale business? They tell me, and I have no doubt it’s true, that it takes a man to be as sharp as a razor for that kind of work. And later, when crossing the ferry, I met one of the clerks I had seen in the office, I took the opportunity to pump him in a quiet way about his bosses, and he was not slow to talk.

“‘Are they fond of women!’ said the clerk. ‘Just terrors! I believe it’s all they think about, and they think no small beer of themselves. Why, there’s Jacob, that’s the eldest, to hear him you would think all the girls in Sydney were running after him, and the married women, too. Even this Mrs. Booth they are talking about so much now, he has often said she had made a dead set at him, wanted him to spark her about, and I don’t know what.’

“‘And did he?’ I asked.

“‘Not that I know of. He never told us that. But then he is such a terrible liar I never believe a word he says.’

“Here we arrived at Milson’s Point, and the clerk left me, but what he had said caused me to think more seriously of these Germans, particularly the elder one, Jacob. As you said yourself, Bell, the knife is not a woman’s weapon, and more than that, with the exception of a few sailors who carry a sheath knife, it is not an Englishman’s weapon. With many foreigners, on the other hand, it is their common mode of attack. Here we have a man stabbed in a house, probably by an inmate of that house. Two of these residents are foreigners, and one of them has an avowed passion for the wife of the murdered man. What is more likely than that he should be the criminal?”

“Of course, Tom, it’s as clear as daylight; it’s that Jacob! That’s the man!”

“Not so fast, Bell, not so fast. How did he open and close the locked and bolted door?”

“Why? why! she must have done it for him!”

“Then she is as guilty as he is, and we had decided she was innocent! Besides, how does this explain the robbery of Mr. Booth’s safe in Sydney? For, in spite of the newspapers, I am convinced there is some connection between the two events. Reviewing the evidence carefully, I think with the Germans it is so far a case of suspicion only. Another boarder was Professor Norris. He, you will remember, was the first to break open the door and enter the room. And mark this, he is an old friend of Mrs. Booth. I went to his shop in Park Street, where he appears to carry on a fortune-telling or character-reading business. As I expected, he was not there; but I found him at Mrs. Delfosse’s. He talked very freely, and I must admit seemed very straightforward in all he said. He may be a bit eccentric in his opinions, but I am bound to say appears as little like a murderer as any man I ever met. This is what he said, in answer to my questions—He had known Mrs. Booth about four years, when he first employed her to assist him in his lectures on phrenology and clairvoyance, which he gave in various towns of the colony. He finally gave up this work, because Mrs. Booth, who was a Miss Summerhayes at that time, got tired of the business, and preferred a life in Sydney. Here she took a place as barmaid, and after a time, against his advice, married the late Mr. Booth. Their married life, he said, was fairly happy, so far as it had gone; nevertheless, he still believes the match was an unsuitable one, and that later on it would have led to dissensions and misery. He is fairly convinced that Mrs. Booth had no hand in her husband’s death. She was still, he said, very fond of him. He could think of no enemy who could desire, or would have benefited in any way by Booth’s death; but he expressed the opinion that all men connected with horse-racing are more or less rogues, and Mr. Booth’s acquaintances were all of that class.

“I asked concerning Mrs. Booth’s relations to the German boarders. He said they were on no more than just speaking terms. They met sometimes at meals, but Mrs. Booth had often told him that she did not like their manners. ‘They ate their food like hogs,’ that was her expression. So that latterly she had done no more than nod to them. The Professor felt positive they had had no hand in the crime.

“‘Who has then?’ I asked. ‘Whom do you suspect?’ He said, ‘I have no suspicions. I have thought of nothing else for the last two days, day and night, and I cannot even form a theory, even a stupid theory, as to either how the crime was done, or who did it. I am pretty well acquainted, by reading, with the history of mysterious crimes, but this, so far as I know, is without a parallel. If I did not know Bertha—that is Mrs. Booth—so well, I should incline to the view that she must have had a hand in it; but I can assure you positively, that I would rather believe it was I myself did it say when I was asleep than that she ever dreamed of such a thing. I know her so well. She would not harm a fly, and the sight of blood at any time would make her faint right away. No, decidedly no, it was not Bertha, and who it was I cannot imagine.’

“With this I left him. The man may be a skilful liar, but I think not. It is not the action of a criminal to try and avert suspicion from others—the Germans, for instance. In Mrs. Booth’s case it might be understood. It is not the action of the criminal to leave no theory to explain his crime. So that I am inclined to believe the Professor, and rule him out, and for that matter, accepting his evidence, rule out Jacob Schnider.”

“But who is there left, Tom?” chimed in Mrs. Hobbs. “If the people in the house are not to be suspected, and the man did not kill himself, it must have been some one outside.”

“So I think. This is why I called at Mr. Booth’s Sydney office and interviewed his clerk. This young man’s story, as published, ran so pat I did not half like the look of it. In the first place, supposing him to be guilty, his story is such as a specious scoundrel would invent. The fact that three weeks ago he knew that thousands of pounds worth of securities were in the safe, while at the date of the robbery there was only a few hundreds in cash, looks a plausible enough suggestion till you come to examine it.

“What were these securities? Were they inscribed stock, mortgage deeds, or bonds? If so, however valuable to the owner they might have been, they would be quite useless to a thief. Cash, on the other hand, is useful to anybody, and there is nothing to show that the cash in the safe at this particular time was not as large as it had ever been. On the other hand, supposing David Israel to be the criminal, or cognisant of the crime, it is hard to understand why an apparently useless murder of great danger and difficulty was added to the comparatively easy crime of theft. Certainly the safe must have been opened by a strange key. Why, having the key, should the robber trouble himself about the life of Mr. Booth? Clearly, if there was any connection between the two crimes there must have been some other motive besides that of robbery.

“These were the thoughts in my mind when I questioned the clerk. He is a glib young man, very dapper in his dress, very voluble in talk, and this is what he said in answer to my questions—He was still carrying on the business, not opening any fresh accounts, but simply paying and receiving cash as it became due. In this he was acting according to instructions from Mrs. Booth, who desired that all her husband’s engagements should be honourably met. He had been in the employ of the late Mr. Booth for the past six months, his duty being to keep all the accounts and the books, Mr. Booth being a poor scholar. The business had been very profitable, no doubt of that, and, besides, his master had had a great run of luck. He could not remember such a run of ‘skinners’ as Booth had had lately. I asked him what a skinner was.

“He said it was a day that was bad for the public; when they were skinned, in fact. As he kept all the accounts, I asked him if he could tell me more exactly by referring to them, how much money had been left in the safe on Saturday. Israel seemed to me to hesitate a little; perhaps it was only my fancy, for he very quickly gave me a total—£374 10s.

“‘This is larger,’ I suggested, ‘than the amount that you first stated.’

“‘Yes, it is,’ he said; ‘but I then spoke hurriedly, without reference to the accounts.’

“‘Was it usual,’ I asked, ‘to have so much loose money?’

“‘Oh, yes,’ he answered, very sharply, ‘we often had a couple of hundred; but Saturday was a busy day, and there might have been a little extra.’

“‘As a matter of fact,’ I inquired, ‘is not this the first time in your experience that such a large sum in cash has been locked up in the safe?’

“‘Perhaps it is,’ he said.

“‘Is it not a fact, Mr. Israel’—and here I made a shot at a venture, an inspiration of the moment ‘that Mr. Booth was about to dispense with your services?’

“‘No such thing!’ he exclaimed; but his sallow face turned red, then very pale. ‘No such thing; he might have growled a bit, he did occasionally when “lively”; but he did not mean what he said.’

“‘He did give you notice then?’

“‘In a sort of way; but it was not serious, and he was half tight at the time.’

“‘And when would this notice expire?’

“‘The end of this week. But it was not serious, I tell you. I took no notice of it. As a matter of fact, Mr. Booth could not understood his own books, and knew he could not do without me.’

“At this point I turned the conversation, and asked him did he know if his master had any enemies, or any persons who would benefit by his death. Israel answered readily enough.

“No, he did not know any particular person; but a big betting man was likely enough to have bad blood with some people; and, as regards his death, that might no doubt lead to the scratching of all his horses in training by his widow; and of course those who had backed them would lose, and the chances of other horses in the race be so much the better.

“This was a new clue to me, and, bidding good-day to Mr. Israel, I came home. Carefully considering the evidence of this clerk, it appears to me the most important of all. In the first place, on his own statement there was ample motive for a robbery of the safe. And not only was there a motive, but he was the only person likely to know that such a large sum was locked up. Next, we have his own assertion that there was £374. But how much more may there have been, unentered by him in those books, over which he had full control? And this notice of dismissal that he was under which he now treats so easily—may, very likely, have been of serious consequence to him. And why was this notice given? Certainly a man in Booth’s position, ignorant of accounts, much of whose business was done on ‘the nod,’ and required an expert to recognize all his varied customers, would be very slow to dismiss a confidential clerk. Probably the cause was something serious—perhaps criminal? At any rate, it looks shady. If there was a spirit of revenge in this man we have a motive for his master’s death; but if we add to this the possibility, as he himself suggested, of a betting-book being so arranged as to gain largely by Mr. Booth’s death, we have a second and still stronger motive.”

“Well, I will say, Tom,” said Mrs. Hobbs, “you have more sense than I gave you credit for. You should arrest that Jew boy at once. I should not hesitate a minute.”

“Easy, my dear, easy. Remember you were equally persistent just now, first that Booth killed himself, then that Jacob Schnider did it.”

“I said nothing of the sort. It was you, you thick-headed numbskull! But there, that’s just like you, trying to put your own mistakes on my shoulders! Why, no one with a grain of sense could hesitate for a minute. I had my doubts from the first about that clerk!”

“Well, old woman, let us suppose it is the clerk, or some one helping him. How do you account for his passing through two locked and bolted doors, and re-passing, leaving them fastened behind him? That he should be able to open the doors is understandable, but that he should have troubled to relock and rebolt them after himself is incredible. The man who robbed the shop locked neither safe nor door, though the motive in that case would have been quite as strong and the job much easier, for in this case the locking was from the outside.”

“Then the murderer did not open the doors at all!”

“So I was inclined to think. But there are only two other possible entrances to the room—a chimney a cat could hardly crawl down, and a window fastened inside, barred without, and thirty-three feet from the ground.”

“Well, I don’t care what you say! That Israel did it, right enough! I never saw a man so aggravating as you are. You no sooner find the man that did it than you try and prove he didn’t!”

* * * * *

It was the evening of the next day. Mr. Hobbs had returned to his tea.

“Well, Tom!” said his wife; “how did the inquest go? Anything fresh?”