Felo de Se

R. Austin Freeman

Part 1
THE GAMBLER: Narrated by Robert Mortimer

Chapter 1 THE MAN IN THE PORCH

THERE IS SOMETHING ALMOST uncanny in the transformation which falls upon the City of London when all the offices are closed and their denizens have departed to their suburban homes. Throughout the working hours of the working days, the streets resound with the roar of traffic and the pavements are packed with a seething, hurrying multitude. But when the evening closes in, a strange quiet descends upon the streets, and the silent, deserted by-ways take on the semblance of thoroughfares in some city of the dead.

The mention of by-ways reminds me of another characteristic of this part of London. Modern, commonplace, and dull as is the aspect of the main streets, in the areas behind and between them are hidden innumerable quaint and curious survivals from the past; antique taverns lurking in queer, crooked alleys and little scraps of ancient churchyards, green with the grass that sprang up afresh amidst the ashes of the Great Fire.

With one of these curious "hinterlands"—an area bounded by Cornhill, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street, and Birchin Lane, and intersected by a maze of courts and alleys—I became intimately acquainted, since I usually crossed it at least twice a day going to and from the branch of Perkins's Bank at which I was employed as a cashier. For the sake of change and interest, I varied my route from day to day—all the alleys communicated and one served as well as another—but the one that I favoured most was the very unfrequented passage which took me through the tiny churchyard of St. Michael's. I think the place appealed to me specially because somewhere under the turf reposes old Thomas Stow, grandfather of the famous John, laid here in the year 1527 according to his wish "to be buried in the litell Grene Churchyard of the Parysshe Church of Seynt Myghel in Cornehyll, betwene the Crosse and the Church Wall, nigh the wall as may be." Many a time, as I passed along the paved walk, had I tried to locate his grave; but the Great Fire must have made an end of both Cross and wall.

I have referred thus particularly to this "haunt of ancient peace" because it was there, on an autumn even in the year 1929, that there befell the adventure that has set me to the writing of this narrative; an adventure which, for me, changed the scene in a mom from a haunt of peace to a place of gruesome and tragic memories.

It was close upon eight o'clock when I emerged from the bank and started rather wearily on my way homeward. It had been a long day, for there had been various arrears to dispose of which had kept us hard at work hours after the bank had closed its doors; and it had been a dull, depressing day, for the sky had been so densely overcast that no single gleam of sunlight had been able to break through, and we had perforce kept the lamps alight all day. Even now, as I came out and shut the door behind me, twilight seemed to have descended on the City, though the sun had barely set and it was not yet time for the street lamps to be lit.

I stood for a moment looking up the gloomy, twilit street, hesitating as to which way to go. Our branch was in Gracechurch Street close to the corner of Lombard Street, and both thoroughfares were equally convenient. Eventually, I chose Gracechurch Street, and, crossing to the west side, walked up it until I came to the little opening of Bell Yard. Turning into the dark entry, I trudged up the narrow passage, cogitating rather vaguely and wishing that I had provided some thing better than the scanty cold supper that I knew awaited me at my lodgings. But I was tired and chilly and empty; I had not had enough food during the day, owing to the pressure of work; so that the needs of the body tended to assert themselves to the exclusion of more elevated thoughts.

At the top of the yard I turned into the little tunnel-like covered passage that led through into Castle Court and brought me out by the railings of the churchyard. Skirting them, I went on to the entrance to the paved walk and passed in up a couple of steps and through the open gateway, noting that even "the litell Grene Churchyard" looked dull and drab under the lowering sky and that lights were twinkling in the office windows beyond the grass plot and in those of the tavern at the side.

At the end of the paved walk is a long flower-bed against the wall of St. Michael's Church, and, just short of this, the arched entrance to another tunnel-like covered passage into which, near its middle, the deep south porch of the church opens. I was about to step down into the passage – which is below the level of the churchyard—when I noticed a hatlying on the flower-bed close up in the corner. It lay crown downwards with its silk lining exposed, and, as it appeared to be in perfectly good condition, I picked it up to examine it. It was quite a good hat; a grey soft felt, nearly new, and the initials A. W., legibly written on the white lining, suggested that the owner had set some value on it. But where was the owner? And how on earth came this hat to belying abandoned by the wayside? A man may drop a glove or a handkerchief or a tobacco pouch and be unaware of his loss; but surely the most absent-minded of men could hardly lose his hat without noticing the fact. And then the further question arose: what does one do with a derelict hat? Of course, I could have dropped it where I had found it; but from this my natural thriftiness and responsibility revolted. It was too good a hat to have been casually flung away by its owner, and, since Fate had appointed me its custodian, the duty seemed to devolve on me to restore it.

I stood for a few moments holding the hat and looking through the dark passage at the shape of light at the farther end, but no one was in sight; and I now recalled that I had not met a soul since I entered Bell Yard from Gracechurch Street. Still wondering how I should set about discovering the owner of the hat, I stepped down into the passage and began to walk along it; but when I reached the middle and came opposite the church porch, my problem seemed to solve itself in a rather startling fashion; for, glancing into the porch, I saw, dimly but quite distinctly in its shadowy depths, a man sitting on the lowest of the three steps that lead up to the church door. He was leaning back against the jamb limply and helplessly as if he were asleep or, more probably, drunk, the latter probability being rather confirmed by a stout walking-stick with a large ivory knob, which had fallen beside him, and what looked like a rimless eyeglass which lay on the stone floor between his feet. But what was more to my present purpose was the fact that not only was he bare-headed, but that no hat was visible. This, then, was doubtless the owner of the derelict.

Holding the latter conspicuously, I stepped into the cavern-like porch, and, addressing the man in a rather loud tone, enquired whether he had lost a hat. As he made no reply or any sign of having heard me, I was disposed to lay the hat down by his side and retire, when it occurred to me that he might possibly have had some kind of fit or seizure. On this I approached closer, and, stooping over him, listened for the sound of his breathing. But I could hear nothing nor could I make out any movement of his chest.

As he was sitting, or sprawling, with his legs spread out, his shoulders supported by the jamb of the door and his head drooping forward on his chest, his face was almost hidden from me. But I now knelt down beside him, and, taking my petrol lighter from my pocket, held it close to his face. And then, as the gleam of the flame fell on him, I sprang up with a gasp of horror. The man's eyes were wide open, staring before him with an intensity that was in hideous contrast to his limp and passive posture. And the face was unmistakably the face of a dead man.

Dropping the hat by his side, I ran through the passage into St. Michael's Alley and down this to Cornhill. At the entrance to the alley I stood for a moment looking up and down the street. In the distance, near the Royal Exchange, I could see a white-sleeved policeman directing the traffic, and I was about to start off towards him when, glancing eastward, I saw a constable approaching along the pavement. At once I hurried away in his direction and we met nearly opposite St. Peter's Church. A few words conveyed my information and secured his very complete attention. "A dead man, you say. Whereabouts did you see him?"

"He islying in the south porch of St. Michael's Church, just up the alley."

"Well," said he, "you had better come along and show me"; and without further parley he started forward with long, swinging strides that gave me some trouble to keep up with him. Back along Cornhill we went and up the alley until we came to the arched entrance to the passage, and here the constable produced his lantern and switched on the light. As we came opposite the porch and my companion threw a beam of light into it, the cave-like interior was rendered clearly visible with the dead man sitting, or reclining, just as I had left him.

"Yes," said the constable, "there don't seem to be much doubt about his being dead." Nevertheless, he put his ear close to the man's face, raising the head gently, and felt for the pulse at the wrist. Then he stood up and looked at me.

"I'd better get on the phone," said he, "and report to the station. They'll have to send an ambulance to take him to the mortuary. Will you stay here until I come back? I shan't be more than a minute or two."

Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the passage and disappeared down the alley, leaving me to pace up and down in the gathering gloom or to stand and gaze out on the darkening churchyard. It was a dismal business, and very disturbing to the nerves I found it; for I am rather sensitive to horrors of any kind, and, being now tired and physically exhausted, I was more than ordinarily susceptible. I had suffered a severe shock, and its effect was still with me as I kept my vigil, now glancing with horrid fascination at the shadowy figure in the dark porch, and now stealing away to the entrance to be out of sight of it. Once, a man came in from the offices across the churchyard, but he hurried through into the alley, brushing past me and all unaware of that dim and ghostly presence.

After the lapse of two or three incredibly long minutes the constable reappeared, and, almost at the moment of his arrival, the lights were switched on and a lamp in the vault of the passage exactly opposite the porch threw a bright light on the dead man.

"Ah!" the officer commented cheerfully, "that's better. Now we can see what we are about." He stepped up to the body, and, stooping over it, cast the light from his lantern on the step behind it.

"There's something there on the stone step," he remarked; "some broken glass and some metal things. I can't quite see what they are, but we'd better not meddle with them until the people from the station arrive. But while we are waiting for the ambulance I'll just jot down a few particulars." He produced a large note-book, and, taking an attentive look at me, added: "We'll begin with your name, address and occupation."

I gave him these, and he then enquired how I came to discover the body. I had not much to tell, but, such as my story was, he wrote it down verbatim in his note book and made me show him the exact spot where I had found the hat; of which spot he entered a description in his book. When he had completed his notes, he read out to me what he had written; and on my confirming its correctness, he handed me his pencil and asked me to add my signature.

He had just returned the note-book to his pocket when an inspector appeared at the alley entrance of the passage, closely followed by two constables carrying a stretcher and one or two idlers who had probably been attracted by the ambulance. The inspector walked briskly up to the porch, and, having cast a quick glance at the dead man, turned to the constable.

"I suppose," said he, "you have got all the particulars. Which is the man who discovered the body?"

"This is the gentlemen, sir," the constable replied, introducing me; "Mr. Robert Mortimer; and this is his statement."

He produced his note-book and presented it, open, to his superior; who stood under the lamp and ran his eye over the statement.

"Yes," he when he had finished reading and returned the book to its owner, "that's all right. Not much in it except the hat. Just show me where you found it."

I conducted him up into the churchyard and pointed out the corner of the flower-bed where the hat had beenlying. He looked at it attentively and then glanced down the passage, remarking that the dead man had apparently come down from Castle Court. "By the way," he added, "I suppose you don't recognise him?"

"No," I replied, "he is a total stranger to me."

"Ah, well," said he, "I expect we shall be able to find out who he is in time for the inquest."

His reference to the inquest prompted mc to ask if I should be wanted to give evidence.

"Certainly," he replied. "You haven't much to tell, but the little that you have may be important."

We were now back at the porch, on the floor of which the stretcher had been placed. At a word from the inspector the two bearers lifted the corpse on to it, and, having laid the hat on the body and covered it with a waterproof sheet, grasped the handles of the stretcher, stood up, and marched away with their burden, followed by the spectators.

The raising of the body had brought into view the objects which the constable had observed and which now appeared to be the fragments of a broken hypodermic syringe. These the inspector collected with scrupulous care, spreading his handkerchief on the upper step to receive them and picking up even the minute splinters of glass that had scattered when the syringe was dropped. When he had gathered up every particle that was visible, and taken up some drops of moisture with a piece of blotting-paper, he made his collection into a neat parcel and put it in his pocket. Then he cast a rapid but searching glance over the floor and walls of the porch, and, apparently observing nothing worth noting, began to walk towards the alley.

"I wonder," he said as we turned into it and came in sight of the waiting ambulance, "how long that poor fellow had beenlying there when you first saw him. Not very long, I should say. Couldn't have been. Somebody must have noticed him. However, I expect the doctor will be able to tell us how long he has been dead. And you had better note down all that you can remember of the circumstances so that you can be clear about it at the inquest."

Here we came out into Cornhill, where the ambulance had been drawn up opposite the church, and the inspector, having wished me "good night," pushed his way through the considerable crowd that had collected and took his place in the ambulance beside the driver. Just as the vehicle was moving away and I was about to do the same, a voice from behind me enquired:

"What's the excitement? Motor accident?"

I seemed to recognise the voice, which had a slight Scottish intonation, and when I turned to answer I recognised the speaker. He was a Mr. Gillum, one of the bank's customers with whom I had often done business.

"No," I replied, "I don't know what it was, but the dead man looked perfectly horrible. I can't get his face out of my mind."

"Oh, but that won't do," said Gillum. "It has given you a bad shake up, but you've got to try to forget it."

"I know," said I, "but just now I'm rather upset. This affair caught me at the wrong time, after a long, tiring day."

"Yes," he agreed, "you do look a bit pale and shaky. Better come along with me and have a drink. That will steady your nerves."

"I am rather afraid of drinks at the moment," said I. "You see, I have had a long day and not very much in the way of food."

"Ah!" said he, "there you are. Horrors on an empty stomach. That's all wrong, you know. Now I'm going to prescribe for you. You will just come and have a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine with me. That will set you up and will give me the great pleasure of your society."

Now I must admit that a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine sounded gratefully in my ears, but I was reluct ant to accept hospitality which my means did not admit conveniently of my returning. A somewhat extravagant taste in books absorbed the surplus of my modest income and left me rather short of pocket-money. However, Gillum would take no denial. Probably he grasped the position completely. At any rate, he brushed aside my half-hearted refusal without ceremony and, even while I was protesting, he hailed a prowling taxi, opened the door and bundled me in. I heard him give the address of a restaurant in Old Compton Street. Then he got in beside me and slammed the door.

"Now," said he, as the taxi trundled off, "for 'the gay and festive scenes and halls of dazzling light'; and oblivion to the demmed unpleasant body."

Chapter 2 JOHN GILLUM

AS THE TAXI PURSUED ITS unimpeded way westward through the half-populated streets, I reflected on the curious circumstances that had made me the guest of a man who was virtually a stranger to me, and I was disposed to consider what I knew of him. I use the word "disposed" advisedly, for, in fact, my mind was principally occupied by my late experiences, and the considerations which I here set down for the reader's information are those that might have occurred to me rather than those that actually did.

I had now been acquainted with John Gillum for some six months; ever since, in fact, I had been transferred to the Gracechurch Street branch of the bank. But our acquaintance was of the slightest. He was one of the bank's customers and I was a cashier. His visits to the bank were rather more frequent than those of most of our customers and on slack days he would linger to exchange a few words or even to chat for a while. Nevertheless, our relations hardly tended to grow in intimacy; for though he was a bright, gay, and rather humorous man, quite amusing to talk to, his conversation persistently concerned itself with racing matters and the odds on, or against, particular horses, a subject in which I was profoundly uninterested. In truth, despite our rather frequent meetings, his personality made so little impression on me that, if I had been asked to describe him, I could have said no more than that he was a tallish, rather good-looking man with black hair and beard which contrasted rather noticeably with his blue eyes, that he spoke with a slight Scotch accent and that two of his upper front teeth had been rather extensively filled with gold. This latter characteristic did, indeed, attract my notice rather unduly; for, though gold is a beautiful material (and one that a banker might be expected to regard with respectful appreciation), these golden teeth rather jarred on me and I found it difficult to avoid looking at them as we talked.

Yet even in those days I felt a certain interest in our customer; but it was a purely professional interest. As cashier, I naturally knew all about his account and his ways of dealing with his money, and on both, and especially his financial habits, I occasionally speculated with mild curiosity. For his habits were not quite normal, or at least were not like those of most other private customers. The latter usually make most of their payments by cheque. But Gillum seemed to make most of his in cash. It is true that he appeared to pay most of his tradespeople by cheque, but from time to time, and at pretty frequent intervals, he would present a" self" cheque for a really considerable sum—one, or even two or three hundred pounds, and occasionally a bigger sum still—and take the whole of it away in pound notes.

It was rather remarkable, in fact very much so when I came to look over the ledger and note the fluctuations of his account. For at fairly regular intervals he paid in really large cheques—up to a thousand pounds—mostly drawn upon an Australian bank, which for a time swelled his account to very substantial proportions. But, by degrees, and not very small degrees, his balance dwindled until he seemed on the verge of an overdraft, and then another big cheque would be paid in and give him a fresh start.

Now there is nothing remarkable in the fluctuation of an account when the customer receives payment periodically in large sums and pays out steadily in the small amounts which represent the ordinary expenses of living. But when I came to cast up Gillum's account, it was evident that the great bulk of his expenditure was in the form of cash. And it seemed additional to the ordinary domestic payments, as I have said; and I found myself wondering what on earth he could be doing with his money. He could not be making investments, or even "operating" on the Stock Exchange, for those transactions would have been settled by cheque. Apparently he was making some sort of payments which had to be made in cash.

Of course it was no business of mine. Still, it was a curious and interesting problem. What sort of payments were these that he was making? Now when a man pays away at pretty regular intervals considerable sums in cash, the inference is that he is having some sort of dealings with someone who either will not accept a cheque or is not a safe person to be trusted with one. But a person who will not accept payment by an undoubtedly sound cheque is a person who is anxious to avoid evidence that a payment has been made. Such anxiety suggests a secret and probably unlawful transaction; and in practice, such a transaction is usually connected with the offence known as "demanding money with menaces." So, as I cast up the very large amounts that Gillum had drawn out in cash, I asked myself, "Is he a gambler, or has he fallen into the clutches of a blackmailer?" The probability of the latter explanation was suggested by certain large withdrawals at approximately quarterly periods, and also by the fact that Gillum not only took payment almost exclusively in pound notes, but also showed a marked preference for notes that had been in circulation as compared with new notes, of the serial numbers of which the bank would have a record. Still, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. A gambler is by no means an unlikely person to be the subject of blackmail.

Such, then, were the reflections that might have occupied my mind had it not been fully engaged with my recent adventure. As it was, the short journey was beguiled by brief spells of scrappy and disjointed conversation which lasted until the taxi drew up opposite the brilliantly lighted entrance of the restaurant and a majestic person in the uniform of a Liberian admiral hurried forward to open the door. We both stepped out, and when Gillum had paid the taxi-driver—extravagantly, as I gathered from the man's demeanour—we followed the admiral into a wide hail where we were transferred to the custody of other and less gorgeous myrmidons.

Giamborini's Restaurant was an establishment of a kind that was beyond my experience, as it was certainly beyond my means. It oozed luxury and splendour at every pore. The basin of precious marble in which I purged myself of the by-products of the London atmosphere was of a magnificence that almost called for an apology for washing in it; the floor of delicate Florentine mosaic seemed too precious to stand upon in common boots; while as to the dining-saloon, I can recall it only as a bewildering vision of marble and gilding, of vast mirrors, fretted ceilings and stately columns—apparently composed of gold and polished gorgonzola—and multitudinous chandeliers of a brilliancy that justified Dick Swiveller's description, lately quoted by Gillum. I found it a little oppressive and was disposed to compare it (not entirely to its advantage) with the homely Soho restaurants that I remembered in the far-off pre-war days.

A good many of the tables were unoccupied, though the company was larger than I should have expected, for the hour was rather late for dinner but not late enough for theatre suppers. Of the guests present, the men were mostly in evening dress, and so, I suppose, were the women, judging by the considerable areas of their persons that were uncovered by clothing. As to their social status I could form no definite opinion, but the general impression conveyed by their appearance was that they hardly represented the cream of the British aristocracy. But perhaps I was prejudiced by the prevailing magnificence.

"What are you going to have, Mortimer?" my host asked as we took our seats at the table to which we had been conducted. "Gin and It, cocktail, or sherry? You prefer sherry. Good. So do I. It is wine that maketh glad the heart of man, not these chemical concoctions."

He selected from the wine list the particular brand of sherry that commended itself to him and then gave a few general directions which were duly noted. As the waiter was turning away, he added: "I suppose you haven't got such a thing as an evening paper about you?"

The waiter had not. But there was no difficulty. He would get one immediately. Was there any particular paper that would be preferred?

"No," replied Gillum," any evening paper will do." Thereupon the waiter bustled away with the peculiar quick, mincing gait characteristic of his craft; a gait specially and admirably adapted to the rapid conveyance of loaded trays. In a minute or two he came skating back with a newspaper under his arm and a tray of hors-d'oeuvres and two brimming glasses of sherry miraculously balanced on his free hand. Gillum at once opened the paper, while I fixed a ravenous eye on the various and lurid contents of the tray. As I had expected, he turned immediately to the racing news. But he did not read the column. After a single brief glance, he folded up the paper and laid it aside with the remark, uttered quite impassively: "No luck."

"I hope you haven't dropped any money," said I, searching for the least inedible contents of the tray.

"Nothing to write home about," he replied. "Fifty."

"Fifty!" I repeated. "You don't mean fifty pounds?"

"Yes," he replied calmly. "Why not? You can't expect to bring it off every time."

"But fifty pounds!" I exclaimed, appalled by this horrid waste of money. "Why, it would furnish a small library."

He laughed indulgently. "That's the bookworm's view of the case but it isn't mine. I've had my little flutter and I'm not complaining; and let me tell you, Mortimer, that I have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds."

I was on the point of remarking that a miss is as good as a mile, but, as that truth has been propounded on some previous occasions, I refrained and asked: "When you say that you have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds, what exactly do you mean? How do you know that you nearly won that amount?"

"It is perfectly simple, my dear fellow," said he. "I laid fifty pounds on the double event at twenty to one against. That is to say, I backed two particular horses to win two particular races. Now, one of my horses won his race all right. The other ought to have done the same. But he didn't. He came in second. So I lost. But you see how near a thing it was."

"Then," said I, "if you had backed the two horses separately, I suppose you would have won on the whole transaction?"

"I suppose I should," he admitted, "but there would have been nothing in it. The horse that won was the favourite. But the double event was a real sporting chance. Twenty to one against. And you see how near I was to bringing it off."

"Nevertheless," I objected, "you lost. And you went into the business with the knowledge, not only that you might lose, but that the chances that you would lose were estimated at twenty to one. I should have supposed that no sane man would have taken such a chance as that."

He looked at me with a broad smile that displayed his golden teeth to great disadvantage.

"Thus saith the banker," he commented. "But you are taking a perverted view of the transaction. You are considering it as an investor might; as a means of realising the greatest profit with the smallest risk. That is the purely commercial standpoint. But I am not engaged in commerce; I am engaged in sport—in gambling, if you prefer the expression. Now the essence of the sport of gambling is the possibility that you may lose. If you were certain to win every time, it might be highly profitable but it would be uncommonly poor fun. Believe me, Mortimer, the heart and soul of the game is the chance of losing."

He spoke quite gravely and earnestly and the statement put me, for the moment, rather at a loss for a reply. For, in its mad way, it was true, and yet, from a practical point of view, it was nonsense. Meanwhile, the waiter brought and placed before us a strangely sophisticated dish, based, I believe, on fish, and then proceeded to fill our glasses with champagne. It was, I think, quite good champagne, though I am no authority, my extreme dissipation, in the ordinary way, not going beyond the traditional "chop and a pint of claret." At any rate, it was highly stimulating, and when Gillum had raised his glass and, with a toast "to the next double event," emptied it and insisted on my doing likewise, the last traces of my depression vanished.

"I admit, Gillum," said I, resuming the discussion, "that there is a certain amount of truth in what you say. But we must try to keep some sense of proportion. Fifty pounds is a devil of a price for the fun of a little flutter. Surely you could have got your sport at a cheaper rate than that."

"But that is just what you can't do," said he. "What you don't seem to realise is that the intensity of the thrill is strictly proportionate to the amount of the possible loss, and, of course, of the possible gain. I could have laid five shillings on the double event and been secure from appreciable loss. But then I should have stood to gain a mere flyer. No, my young friend, you can't get a respectable thrill for five bob. And there is another thing that you are over-looking. You speak as if I lost every time. But I don't. Sometimes I win. If I never won, it would be a dull game and I expect I shouldn't go on."

"I think you would," said I. "You would always be hoping that at last you would get your money back."

"Perhaps you are right," he conceded. "It is certainly the fact that a genuine gambler is not put off by a succession of losses. The oftener he loses the more dogged he becomes."

"So I have always understood," said I. "But to come to your own case, you say that sometimes you win. How often do you win? Taking your betting transactions as a whole, how does the balance stand? Are you in pocket or out?"

"Out, of course," he replied promptly. "Every body is, excepting the bookies. And they don't do it for sport, but just as a cold-blooded matter of business. They don't lose, in ordinary circumstances, and they don't win to a considerable extent. They just balance their books and make a comfortable living. But, of course, the fact that the bookies are in pocket by the transaction is clear proof that the backers, as a whole, must be out."

There seemed to me something very odd and rather abnormal in the reasonable and lucid way in which he discussed this absurdity. I had the sort of feeling that one might have had in discussing insane delusions with a lunatic. But I returned to the charge, futile as I knew the discussion to be.

"Very well," said I, "you agree that the balance of profit and loss is against you. How much, you know better than I do, but I suspect that your losses, from month to month, are pretty heavy." (Of course, I did not "suspect." I knew. The bank's books told the story.) "You must be paying very considerable sums for your little flutters and I put it to you, isn't it a most monstrous waste of money?"

He laughed cheerfully and refilled our glasses.

"I see," he replied, "that you are an incorrigible financier. You are taking a completely perverted view of the matter. You speak of waste of money. But what, after all, is money?"

"If you are asking me that as a banker," I replied, "I can only say that I don't know. I know what money was before the war, but now that the politicians and financial theorists have taken it over, it has become something quite different and I don't profess to understand it."

"That isn't quite what I meant," said he. "I was referring to money in general terms. What is it? It is simply a means of obtaining certain satisfactions or pleasures. No one wants money for itself excepting a miser."

"You can rule out misers," said I. "They are an extinct race. A miser doesn't hoard paper vouchers which have only a conventional and temporary value."

"No, I suppose not," he agreed. "At any rate, I am not a miser" (which was most unquestionably true), "and I have no use for money excepting as a means of obtaining satisfactions. And that is the rational use of money. I put it to you, Mortimer, if a man has money and there are certain things that he desires and that money will buy, is it not obviously reasonable that he should exchange the thing that he doesn't want for the things that he does? You speak of waste of money. But is it wasted when it is being used for the very purpose for which it exists? Take, for instance, this bottle of champagne—which, by the way, is getting low and needs replacing. Now, I think we like champagne."

"I do, certainly," I admitted.

"I am glad you do. So do I. And we can get it in exchange for your despised paper vouchers. Accordingly, like sensible men, we make the exchange; and I submit that it is a reasonable and profitable transaction. For if, as you suggest, the money is a mere fleeting convention, the champagne for which we have exchanged it isn't. It is real champagne."

Seeing that we had already emptied one bottle, the cogency of this argument did not impress me. Probably I should have proceeded to rebut it, but at this paint an interruption occurred and the discussion broke off.

When we had entered the room, I had noticed a party of three persons, two men and a woman, at a table in a corner. They had caught my attention because we had evidently caught theirs. But I don't think that Gillum observed them; and when we had seated ourselves, as his back was towards them, they were outside his range of vision whereas I was nearly facing them; and throughout our meal I found myself from time to time looking in their direction, attracted as before by the occasional glances that they cast in ours. It seemed to me that they must be acquainted with Gillum, for there was otherwise nothing noticeable in our appearance. At any rate, they were obviously interested in us and I received the impression that we were being discussed.

They did not prepossess me favourably. I cannot say exactly why, but there was an indefinable some thing about them that jarred on me. The men did not look like gentlemen, and the woman, dressed in the extreme of an unbecoming fashion, was so heavily and coarsely made up as to extinguish any good looks that she might have had. Everything about her seemed to be artificial. Her hair was of an unnatural colour, her cheeks were visibly painted, and her lips were plastered with crude vermilion like the lips of a circus clown.

That these people were acquaintances of Gillum's became evident when they rose to depart, for they steered a course across the room which brought them opposite our table. And here they halted; and, for the first time, Gillum became aware of their presence. His expression did not convey to me that he was over joyed, but as the lady bestowed on him the kind of leer that is known as "giving the glad eye," he made shift to produce a responsive smile.

"Now, don't let us interrupt your dinner," said she, as he rose to shake hands. "But, as you cut us dead when you came in, we have just come across to say 'howdy' and let you know that we saw you. We are now off to the club. Shall you be coming along presently?

Gillum was inclined to be evasive. "I don't quite know what the programme is," he replied. "It depends on what my guest would like to do."

"Bring him along with you," said she, "and let him see the ball roll. I'm sure he'd enjoy it, wouldn't you?"

As she asked the question, she turned to me with the peculiar cat-like grin that one sees in newspaper portraits of young women, with a distinct tendency to the "glad eye"; and I noticed that it seemed a rather tired eye and slightly puffy about the lower lids.

"I am not really an enthusiast in regard to billiards," I replied, "and I am no player. But it is interesting enough to look on at a good game."

Apparently I had said something funny, for the lady greeted my answer with a gay—and rather strident—laugh, and the two men, who had been looking on in silence, broke into sour grins. But Gillum, also smiling, evidently wished to get rid of his acquaintances for he interposed with the air of closing the conversation.

"Well, we shall see what we feel like when we have dined. I won't make any engagement now."

The lady took the hint graciously enough. "Very well, Jack," said she. "We will leave you in peace and hope to see you later;" and with this and another smile which embraced us both, she moved off with her two companions, neither of whom seemed to take any notice of Gillum.

"What was the joke? "I asked when they had gone. "And what club was she referring to?"

"It isn't really a club," replied Gillum. "It is what, I suppose, you would call a gambling hell; a place where you can stake your money at trente et quarante, rouge et noir, chemin de fer, or any of the regular gambling games. The joke was that the ball she meant was not a billiard ball but the little ball that rolls round the roulette wheel. It is not a particularly amusing joke."

"No," I agreed. "And are these people connected with the club?"

"Very much so," he replied. "That tall chappie—the one with the squint —runs the place, and I should think he does fairly well out of it. He is a Frenchman of the name of Foucault."

"He doesn't look a particularly amiable person," I remarked, recalling the rather sulky way in which he had looked on at the interview.

Gillum laughed. "He is a silly ass," said he, "as jealous as the devil; and as Madame's manners are, as you saw, of the distinctly coquettish, slap and tickle order, there is pretty constant trouble. But he needn't worry. There is no harm in the fair Marie. Her engaging wiles are all in the way of business."

"Do you spend much time at the club?" I asked.

"I drop in there pretty frequently," he replied.

"And I suppose you drop a fair amount of money."

"I suppose I do. But not so much as you would think. You orthodox financiers seem to imagine that a gambler always loses, but that is quite a mistake. The luck isn't always on the one side. Sometimes I pick up a little windfall that pays my expenses for quite a long time."

"Still," said I, "the balance must be against you in the long run."

"I have already admitted," he replied, "that I lose on my gambling transactions as a whole, and probably I lose, in the long run, at the club, though it isn't so easy to keep accounts of what I do there. But supposing that the balance is against me. What about it? Foucault runs the club to make a profit. But he can only make a profit if the players make a loss. What they lose to the bank is, in effect, their payment to him for the entertainment that he supplies. Hang it all, Mortimer, you can't expect to get your fun for nothing."

"Some people do," said I," the people, I mean, who have infallible systems. I gather that you don't use a system."

"Well," he replied cautiously, "I haven't managed yet to devise a system that really works, but I have given some thought to the matter. There ought to be some way of ascertaining how the laws of chance operate, and if one could discover that, one would have the means of circumventing them."

"You haven't tried the plan of doubling the stakes when you lose?"

"Yes, I have; and I must admit that, for sheer excitement there is nothing like it. Your real, rabid gambler loves it—and usually cleans himself out. But for a sane and sober gambler it is not practicable. There are too many snags. To begin with, at the best you only get your money back plus the amount of the lowest stake. Consequently, the first stake must be a fairly large one or there is nothing in it. But if you start with a substantial stake and the luck is against you, you are up in enormous figures before you know where you are. For instance, supposing you are playing roulette and you lay a hundred pounds on manque or impair or any of the even chances. If you lose four times in succession, which would not be extraordinary, you have dropped fifteen hundred pounds; and the danger is that you may empty your pocket before the winning coup comes round. Then you have lost the lot. But there is another snag. The bank won't let you go on doubling as long as you like. There is a limit set to each kind of bet, and when you reach that limit you are not allowed to double any more. If you go on playing you have got to go back to a flat stake, in which case it is impossible for you to win back what you have lost. So, regarded as a serious method of play, the doubling racket is no go."

"It seems astonishing," said I, "that anyone should practise it. But perhaps they don't."

"Oh, don't they?" said Gillum. "You must understand, Mortimer, that to the real, perfect gambler, the charm of the game is the risk of losing. The bigger the risk, the greater the thrill. Plenty of people at the club, particularly the roulette players, double the stakes when they lose; and there is a temptation, you know, when you have lost, to take another chance in the hope of getting your money back. But it is a bad plan, because you stand to lose so much more than you stand to gain."

"Don't some people double on their winnings?" I asked.

"Ah," said he, "but that is quite a different kind of affair. There is some sense in that because it is quite the opposite of the other method. If you win you win, you don't merely get your money back; and if you eventually lose, you have only lost your original stake—plus your winnings, of course. Supposing you take an even chance at roulette, say you put a hundred pounds on red and you win; and suppose that you leave the stake and the winnings—two hundred pounds—on the table as a fresh stake. If the red turns up again you take up four hundred, of which one hundred is your original stake. You have won three hundred. But if you lose, you have only lost a hundred, plus the three that you had won. From a gambler's point of view it is quite a sound method."

"Yes," I agreed, "I see that, at least, you start with the knowledge of the amount that you stand to lose. But the whole thing is beyond my comprehension. I can't begin to understand the state of mind of a man who is prepared to risk his money in a transaction over which he has no control and in respect to which no judgement, calculation or prevision is possible."

He laughed gaily and refilled our glasses. "You are a banker to the finger-tips, Mortimer," said he; "and, as you happen to be my banker, I am not disposed to quarrel with your eminently correct outlook. I suppose you have never seen a gambling den.''

"Never," I replied; "and I am an absolute ignorant on the subject of gambling. I hardly know how to play the common card games."

"I think you ought to know what these shows are like," said he. "I can assure you that, as a mere spectacle, a regular gaming house is worth seeing. What do you say to strolling round to the club with me when we have had our coffee? It's too late to do anything else."

It was really too late to do anything but go home and to bed. But I could hardly, in the circumstances, suggest that course. Nor, in fact, was I particularly disposed to; for the excellent dinner and the equally excellent wine had produced a state of exhilaration that made me not disinclined for adventure. In my normal state, nothing would have induced me to set loot in a gambling den. Now I fell in readily enough with Gillum's suggestion.

"But shan't I be expected to play?" I enquired. "Because I am not going to."

"That will be all right," he replied. "I shall explain to Madame, and she will see that you are left in peace. But you understand that this is an unregistered club and that you will keep your own counsel about your visit there. I shall have to guarantee your secrecy."

I gave the necessary undertaking and Gillum then held the wine bottle up to the light.

"There's half a bottle left," said he, making as if to refill my glass. "Won't you really? Not another half-glass? Well, I don't think I will, either. We will just have our coffee and a cognac and then toddle round to the club and see the ball roll."

Chapter 3 THE GAMING HOUSE

FROM GIAMBORINI'S WE STROLLED forth into Wardour Street, and, proceeding in a southerly direction, promptly turned into Gerrard Street. I knew the place slightly and on my occasional passage through it had found a certain bookish interest in contrasting its recent faded and shabby aspect with that which it must have presented in the days when Dryden was a resident, and, later, when the Literary Club with Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith and Gibbon, held its meetings here.

"Queer old street," Gillum commented, looking about him disparagingly. "Quite fashionable, I believe, at one time, but it is down on its luck nowadays. Very mixed population, too. All sorts of odd clubs, British and foreign, and tradesmen who seem to have survived from the Stone Age. There is a fellow some where along here who makes spurs. Think of it. Spurs! In the twentieth century. This is our show."

He halted at a doorway which, shabby and grimy as it was, yet preserved some vestiges of its former dignity, and having run his eye over an assortment of bell handles, put his finger on an electric button which surmounted them and pressed several times at irregular intervals.

"Are you ringing out a code message?" I asked.

"Well, yes, in a way," he replied. "There is a particular kind of ring that the regular members give just to let the people upstairs know that it isn't a stranger. There is always the possibility of a raid and our friends like to have time to make the necessary arrangements."

The idea of a police raid was not a pleasant one and the suggestion tended rather to damp my enthusiasm. I expressed the hope that this would not happen to be the occasion of one.

"No, indeed," said Gillum. "it would be unfortunate for you. Wouldn't increase your prestige at the bank. But you needn't worry. There has never been any trouble since I have known the place. I have sometimes suspected that Foucault has some sort of discreet understanding with the authorities, but in any case, I know there is a bolt hole through into the next house where an Italian club has its premises."

This did not sound very reassuring. I felt the exhilarating effects of the champagne evaporating rapidly; and when at length the door was opened, the aspect of the janitor did not produce a favourable impression. He was a big, powerful man, with a heavy jaw and beetling brows and a strong suggestion of the professional pugilist. He carried an electric lamp, the light of which he cast on us while he inspected us critically. Then the truculent expression faded suddenly from his face and a cheerful Irish voice exclaimed:

"Whoy, it's Mr. Gillum. Good evening, sorr. And the other gentleman, would he be a friend of yours?"

"Yes," replied Gillum, "it's all right, Cassidy. All's well and the lights are burning brightly, sir."

Mr. Cassidy chuckled as he let us in and shut the door. "Many's the time," said he, "as I've spoken them same wurrds in the days when I used the sea. What did ye say the gentleman's name was?"

"His name is Mortimer," replied Gillum.

"To be sure it is," said Cassidy, adding, as he threw his light downwards: "Kape your oyes on the stairs, sorr. There's a tread loose at the turn."

The stairs were, in fact, in somewhat indifferent repair, but I noticed as the light flickered over them that this had once been quite a handsome staircase though a trifle narrow; and even now the fine moulded handrail and the graceful twisted balusters redeemed its extreme shabbiness. At the top of the second flight we came to a bare landing with a door facing us. This Cassidy opened, and, having admitted us, passed in himself, crossed the room and disappeared through mother doorway, presumably to report our arrival and identity.

I looked round the room which we had entered and was conscious of a faint sense of anti-climax. It was so very ordinary and so very innocent; much like the interior of the cheaper kind of old-fashioned Soho restaurant. At the farther end of the room was a large sideboard, presided over by a man in a white coat and cap and piled with a variety of food, including a ham, a number of different types of sausage, a great stack of sandwiches and long French loaves. On a shelf behind was a long row of bottles of mineral waters but on the sideboard I noted several champagne bottles, a few of whisky, and some of absinthe and other liqueurs.

The room was moderately full of people; full enough to have given Mr. Cassidy considerable occupation if they had been admitted separately. Some of them were lounging about, talking; others were seated at little tables, taking food rather hurriedly, and some were actually drinking ginger ale, though most of them were provided with wine, whisky or Dutch gin. One or two of the tables were furnished with chess-boards and sets of dominoes, but none of them appeared to be in use. Apparently their function was purely psychological. They were part of the "make-up" of the establishment.

I had not much time to examine the company, but a rapid inspection conveyed to me the impression that they were all rather abnormal and slightly disreputable. There was an air of eagerness, anxiety and excitement about them, mingled, in some cases, with a sort of wild hilarity. Those at the tables gobbled their food as if they were hastily stoking up and were anxious to get the business over. Particularly I noticed a group of four men standing by the sideboard devouring sandwiches wolfishly and gulping champagne from tumblers. But, as I said, I had little time to observe them, for, after a brief pause and a curious glance round the room, Gillum conducted me to a door near the farther end from which Cassidy emerged as we approached.

There was certainly nothing innocent about the room that we now entered. A single glance convicted it. The roulette table alone furnished evidence to which there could be no answer, and the groups of haggard, intent men and women gathered round the card tables that filled most of the room, if less conclusive to a possible raider, were unmistakable, seen as I saw them.

From one of these tables the lady of the restaurant rose, and laying down her cards, came to meet us.

"So you have persuaded Mr. Mortimer to come," she said, bestowing a gracious smile on me and offering an extensive sample of teeth for my inspection (apparently she had got my name from Mr. Cassidy).

"Yes," replied Gillum, "but he has only come as a spectator. I have just brought him round to show him the ropes in case he may feel disposed for an evening's sport later on."

"That is very good of you, Jack," said she. "Of course, he can please himself as to whether he plays or not. Perhaps, when he has looked on for a while, he may feel inclined to try his luck. People who come to look on very often do."

"I have no doubt they do," said Gillum with a sly mile. "The complaint is catching and fools who come to scoff remain to play."

"I hope Mr. Mortimer hasn't come to scoff," said she; and when I had protested with more emphasis than sincerity she asked: "Where is your pupil going to take his first lesson ? "

"Well," he replied," as he knows practically nothing about card games, I think roulette will suit him best. Besides, it is the beginner's game and it is the most typical game of chance."

That's true," Madame agreed, "though it seems to me a dull game, if you can call it a game at all. Let me find a couple of chairs so that you and your pupil can sit together; and then, when Mr. Mortimer is comfortably settled, I want to have a few words with you."

We secured two chairs and placed them in a vacant place at the end of the table by the compartment distinguished by a red lozenge on the green cloth. Then Madame introduced me to the croupier, whom she addressed as Hyman—his surname I found later to be Goldfarb—and when Gillum had placed his hat on his chair, she linked her arm with his and led him away among the multitude of card tables.

Left to myself, I first disposed of my hat and stick under my chair, as I noticed that several other men had done, though there was a large hat rack in the adjoining room. Then I proceeded to make my observations.

There was plenty to observe, and it was all strange and novel to me. There were, for instance, the various players, most of them seated at the table, though some preferred to stand and hover about behind the chairs, and there was the croupier, a pleasant faced Jew, calm, impassive and courteous, though obviously very much "on the spot"; and there were the parties of players at the card tables, most of whom I could see from my position without appearing to spy on them.

I considered them one by one. My next neighbour was an elderly woman whom I judged to be French, who sat like a graven image, silently and immovably intent on her game. She seemed to have the disease in a chronic form, for she played mechanically without a sign of satisfaction when she won or annoyance when she lost. At each spin of the wheel she laid a ten-shilling note on the space before which she sat—that marked with the red lozenge. If she won, she put the note that she had gained into a little hand bag and held the other in readiness for the next turn of the wheel; if she lost, she fished a note out of the bag for the next coup. So she went on as long as I observed her; always the same stake on the same spot. It looked deadly dull, and it was not gambling at all in any proper sense; for, by the ordinary laws of chance, it was almost impossible for her either to win or lose to an appreciable extent. So fatuous her proceedings seemed that I almost felt more respect for her next-door neighbour, a small German who might, from his appearance, have been a waiter. He certainly took risks, for his formula was two numbers "a cheval," and he kept to the same two numbers. As the odds against him were seventeen to one, he naturally lost with great regularity; and when he lost cursed under his breath—not very far under—shook his head and grimaced angrily. I think he must have been pretty near the end of his resources, for I saw him take out a wallet and look into it anxiously. But at this moment his magic number was announced, whereat he gave a yell of ecstasy, grabbed up his winnings, stuffed them into his wallet excepting one pound note, which he laid on the same spot as before and lost within a minute.

From the roulette table my attention wandered to the other occupants of the room and occasionally to Gillum and Madame, who walked slowly to and fro at the end of the room conversing earnestly. Nor was I the only observer. Several of the card-players cast a glance from time to time at the pair, and the three occupants of the table from which Madame had risen made no secret of their interest. Two of these I could not see very well but M. Foucault sat facing me; and never have I seen a more evil expression than that which his countenance bore as he watched them. He was not a pleasant-looking man at the best, and a slight squint did not improve matters; but now his aspect was positively villainous.

Not that his manifest anger was without provocation, for Madame's oglings and her caressing manner towards Gillum, regardless of the company, would have been offensive to the most tolerant of husbands. She might have been Gillum's lover—and not a very reticent lover at that. It is true that Gillum took it all very coolly with no sign of responsive demonstrations; but I felt that he was being more than indiscreet. Obviously, in his association with this woman, who seemed of set purpose to exasperate her husband, he was taking the risk of serious trouble.

Presently, to my relief they strolled over to Foucault's table and while Madame resumed her seat, Gillum drew up a spare chair and sat down facing her husband. Apparently the lady was giving some sort of explanation for she spoke volubly, leaning across the table to avoid raising her voice, while the others leaned forward to listen, and Foucault appeared to be gazing simultaneously at his wife and Gillum—an optical illusion, of course, due to his "swivel eye."

The discussion did not last long, and it was evidently quite an amicable affair, for when Gillum stood up, he shook hands with them all, including the grim-faced Foucault, before turning away to rejoin me; and I noted the leave-taking with considerable satisfaction, for it was getting alarmingly late and I began to feel that I had had enough of this not very thrilling form of entertainment.

"Yes," Gillum agreed, when I ventured on a hint to that effect, "time's getting on and you've to be at the bank as fresh as a lark to-morrow morning. But we must have one little flutter before we go. What shall it be? Shall we try an experiment with the doubling plan that we were discussing at dinner?"

Without waiting for an answer he laid a pound note on the red beside the ten-shilling note that the elderly lady had just put down. I watched with unexpected in as the revolving wheel was checked and the little white ball clattered round the dial, and was sensibly disappointed when it settled at last in compartment 21. For 21 happened unfortunately to be black. But Gillum was as indifferent as the old lady, and while Mr. Goldfarb raked in the bank's winning's and paid out to the players who had won, he calmly selected two fresh notes from his bulging wallet.

Once more the wheel was spun, the ball was thrown out on to the revolving surface, then the croupier chanted "Rien ne va plus" and checked the wheel, Gillum laid down his two notes, and a dozen pairs of eyes anxiously followed the travels of the dancing ball. At length it dropped into compartment 32—black again; and Gillum sorted out four pound notes from his wallet.

So it went on for a while. Regardless of the law of probability, the ball persisted in dropping into black compartments, and at each failure Gillum doubled his stake. I watched the proceedings with ridiculous anxiety. At the fourth losing coup when the croupier raked in eight of Gillum's pound notes, I noted mentally that my friend was already fifteen pounds out of pocket. If he lost the next coup, that fifteen would become thirty-one. It was positively harrowing to a thrifty man like myself; accustomed to keep a rigid account of every shilling that I spent.

However, he did not lose this time. My anxious eye following the ball, saw it eventually settle in compartment four which was red; and the croupier's rake, instead of sweeping away Gillum's sixteen pounds, added to them another sixteen.

"There, you see," said Gillum; "I am one pound to the good; and that is all I should have gained if I had gone on till doomsday. But I am a gainer to the extent that I have got back what I had lost."

He began to pick up the notes, counting them as he did so. Among them there had been four ten-shilling notes, but now there were only three; the explanation of which was that the old lady, when she had gathered up her two notes, had quietly added to them one of Gillum's. I saw her do it, and so did he; and he now ventured, with the utmost delicacy, to point out the little inadvertency. The lady gazed at him stonily, and I think was about to contest the matter, but at this moment a shout from the farther end of the room, followed by a crash and the sound of shattering glass, effectually diverted our attention.

I looked round quickly and saw two men, each grasping the other by the hair and both yelling like Bedlamites, one accusing the other—in Italian—of being a cheat and the other retorting—in French—that his accuser was a liar. A table and two chairs had been capsized, and very soon, as the combatants gyrated wildly and clawed at each other, more tables were capsized. Then the occupants of those tables joined in the fray with suitable vocal accompaniments and in a moment pandemonium reigned in the previously quiet room. As Foucault and his two friends sprang up and charged into the midst of the mêlée, the door burst open and Cassidy rushed in like an angry bull.

"We'd better clear out of this," said Gillum. "If they keep up this hullabaloo they'll bring the police up." As I agreed heartily, he grabbed up his winnings (but I observed that there were now only two ten-shilling notes) and we retrieved our hats from under the chairs and stole out as well as we could through the little crowd of spectators from the restaurant-room who had gathered round the door to look on at the battle. With the aid of my pocket lamp we made the perilous passage of the stairs —not forgetting the loose tread—and at last emerged safely into the street.

"My word!" exclaimed Gillum, as we crossed the road the more completely to sever our connection with the club, "how those dagoes do yell when they have a bit of a scrap. Just listen to them."

There was not much need to listen for the uproar was such that windows were opening and various night-birds were appearing from the doors of adjacent houses. Evidently, it was desirable for us to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly as possible; which we did, walking briskly but with no outward sign of undue hurry until we were safely out in Wardour Street, where we turned to the left and headed for Leicester square. Here we had the good fortune to encounter prowling, nocturnal taxi, the driver of which Gillum hailed by voice and gesture. As the vehicle drew up to the kerb he turned to me and asked : " Whereabouts do you hang out, Mortimer?"

"I live at Highbury," I replied.

"Yes, but that's a trifle vague. What's the exact address?" I gave him my full postal address which he communicated to the driver. "And," he added, "you can drop me at Clifford's Inn Passage, opposite the Inner Temple Gate. Will that do for the whole journey?

"That" appeared to be a ten-shilling note and the driver replied that "it would do very well, thank you, sir"; whereupon we got in and the cab trundled away towards the Strand. I made some ineffectual efforts to refund my share of the payment, but Gillum declared that the calculation was beyond his arithmetic and suggested that we should work it out on some more suitable occasion. We were still arguing the point when the cab stopped in the shadow of St. Dunstan's Church and Gillum got out.

"Well, good night, Mortimer," said he, "or good morning, to be more exact. I hope you have had a pleasant and instructive evening. You have certainly had a full one what with corpses, illegal gambling, and the battle of the dagoes."

He shut the door and waved his hand, and the taxi resumed its journey, turning up Fetter Lane and later heading for Gray's Inn Road. Now that I was alone, I felt a strong disposition to go to sleep; but by an effort I managed to keep awake and watch the familiar landmarks as they slipped by until, in a surprisingly short time, the taxi drew up at the gate of the eligible suburban residence which enshrined the two rooms that served me as a home. The driver actually got out to open the door for me—possibly suspecting some temporary disability, or perhaps as a demonstration of his satisfaction with the fare. At any rate, he gave me a cheerful "good night" and I inserted my latch-key with ease and precision as the clock of a neighbouring church was striking two.

Chapter 4 ABEL WEBB, DECEASED

THE EVENTS OF THE EVENING which I had spent with Gillum gave me a good deal to think about. There was no longer any mystery as to what he did with the large sums that he drew from the bank. He just gambled them away. As to how much it was possible for an inveterate gambler like Gillum to drop in any one transaction, I could form no guess. Apparently there was no limit excepting the total amount that the gambler possessed. I had heard and read of players who had lost thousands in a single game, but it had always seemed to me incredible. Now, however, judging by what I had seen, and still more by what Gillum had said, I felt that nothing could overstate the monstrous truth.

The reflection was a sad and depressing one. It made me quite unhappy. For Gillum was no longer a mere customer. He had become an acquaintance, almost a friend, and I had found him a pleasant, likeable man, and apparently a man of good intelligence apart from his insane hobby. It really distressed me to think of a man with his brilliant opportunities frittering away the means of achievement in this puerile sport. And then, what of the future? If his source of supply was a permanent one he might go on indefinitely, simply flinging away his income as fast as he received it. But suppose it were not a stable, continuing income. Suppose it should dwindle or cease? What then? It was pretty certain that this relatively wealthy man would very soon be reduced to actual poverty.

But the mystery of Gillum's expenditure was not completely solved. Apart from the big drafts in cash at irregular intervals there were those regular, periodic drafts which I had regarded with such suspicion. Had our evening's experiences thrown any light on them? I could not say positively that they had. And yet there was at least a suggestion. The whole atmosphere of that sordid gaming house with its deeply shady frequenters: the sinister-looking proprietor—manifestly hostile to Gillum—the painted Jezebel, his wife, the ruffian Cassidy, obviously a paid bully, and finally, Gillum's long and mysterious conference with Madame; if these did not actually offer a suggestion of blackmail, they did at least suggest the very conditions in which blackmail is apt to occur.

From Gillum and his affairs my thoughts turned at intervals to the dead man who had been the means of our introduction. I had read a brief notice of the discovery in the morning paper and had expected to receive on the same day a summons to attend the inquest. Actually, I did not receive it until the evening of the second day, when I found it awaiting me at my lodgings, requiring my attendance on the following day at two o'clock in the afternoon. Accordingly, on my arrival at the office in the morning, I showed it to our manager, and, having received his authority to absent myself from the bank, duly presented myself at the time and place appointed.

The body had been identified as that of a man named Abel Webb, and that was all that was said about him in the first place. Further particulars were left to transpire in the evidence.

There is no need for me to describe the proceedings in detail apart from the essentials. The coroner opened with a concise statement of the matter which formed the subject of the inquiry, the jury were then conducted to the mortuary to view the body, and when they had returned and taken their places the coroner proceeded to deal with the evidence.

"I think," said he, "that we had better begin by calling Mr. Mortimer. His evidence is of no great importance but it comes first in the order of time."

My name was accordingly called, and when I had given the necessary particulars concerning myself, the coroner said: "Now, Mr. Mortimer, just tell us how you came to be connected with the subject of this inquiry. We can ask any necessary questions later."

Thus directed, I gave a plain and rather bald account of my discovery of the body and the circumstances leading thereto, to which the jury listened with eager interest; naturally enough, since the coroner's statement had given but the barest indication of the nature of the case.

"We understand," said the coroner, "that you did not recognise deceased as a person whom you had ever seen before?"

"That is so," I replied. "The man was a stranger to me."

"Would it have been possible for anyone passing along the alley as you did to fail to notice the body?"

"Yes," I replied, "and not only possible but rather probable. It was dark in the alley and still darker in the church porch. I am not sure that I should have seen the body myself but for the fact that I had found the hat and was on the look-out for the owner. Moreover, I was walking very slowly at the moment when I saw the body."

"You think, then, that a person walking at an ordinary pace and not closely observing his surroundings, might have passed the porch without seeing the body?"

"I think it extremely likely," I answered. "In fact, while I was waiting for the constable, a man did actually pass through without noticing the body. He was certainly in a great hurry, but I think if he had not been, he still might not have noticed anything."

"That," said the coroner, addressing the jury, "is, of course, only an opinion, but it agrees with the facts to which the witness has deposed; and the point may be of some importance. Does anything further occur to you, Mr. Mortimer, or do you think that you have told us all that you have to tell?"

"I think I have told you all I know about the matter," I replied; whereupon the coroner, having invited the jury to ask any questions that they wished to ask and receiving no response, the depositions were read and signed and the next witness called.

Constable Walter Allen of the City Police, having completed the preliminaries, deposed as follows: "I was on duty in Cornhill on the evening of Monday the ninth of September. At eight-two p.m. on that evening I was accosted by the last witness, Mr. Robert Mortimer, who informed me that he had seen the dead body of a man lying in the passage leading from St. Michael's Alley to the churchyard. I went with him at once to the place mentioned and there saw the body of deceased in the church porch. The body was partly sitting and partly lying. It was seated on the lowest of the three steps and was leaning back in the corner against the church door. I examined the body sufficiently to assure myself that the man was really dead and then I went away and telephoned to the station in Old Jewry, reporting the discovery and returned to the passage to wait until I was relieved."

"You have heard what the last witness said about the darkness of the passage," said the coroner. "Do you agree that it would have been possible for anyone to pass through the passage without noticing the body?"

"Yes," the constable replied," I do. It was growing dark out in the street, and in the passage, which is a sort of tunnel, the light was very dim; and in the porch, which is about eight feet deep, it was practically dark. A person might easily have passed through the covered passage without seeing the body in the porch."

This completed the constable's evidence, and as he retired, the name of Inspector Pryor was called; whereupon that officer came forward, and having been sworn, proceeded to give his testimony with professional conciseness and precision. Taking up the thread of the constable's story, he confirmed the description of the body and its position in the porch and agreed that it might have been lying there unnoticed for some time— perhaps as long as half an hour—before it was discovered.

"Were you able," the coroner asked, "to form any opinion as to how deceased met with his death?"

"Yes. When the body had been put on the stretcher, I examined the place where it had been lying and there I found the pieces of a broken hypodermic syringe and some drops of liquid on the stone step. The fragments of the syringe gave off a smell rather like bitter almonds and so did the liquid, which I took up with a piece of clean blotting-paper. The fragments of the syringe are in this box but the blotting-paper was handed to the medical officer."

He handed a small cardboard box to the coroner who opened it, peered in, sniffed at it, and passed it on to the jury. Then he asked: "Were there any finger-prints on the fragments of the syringe?"

"Only a few smears that were quite undecipherable. I examined the button of the plunger very carefully, but even there I could find nothing but a smear."

"You were able to ascertain the identity of deceased?"

"Yes, there were a number of letters in his pocket addressed to Abel Webb, Esq. which enabled us to make the necessary enquiries."

"Besides the syringe, did you find anything on the spot that could throw light on this mysterious affair? Any signs of a struggle, for instance?"

"Nothing whatever," was the reply. "But as to a struggle, seeing that the floor of the passage is paved and that of the porch tiled, there would hardly be any traces even if a struggle had occurred."

"No," said the coroner, "I suppose there would not." He reflected for a few moments, and then, as there was apparently nothing more to be got out of the Inspector, he intimated that the examination was concluded; and when the depositions had been read and signed, the officer retired.

"I think," said the coroner, "that, as I see that Dr. Ripley is present, we had better take the medical evidence next so as not to detain the doctor unnecessarily."

The new witness, a small, very alert-looking gentle man, having been sworn and having stated his name and professional qualifications, looked enquiringly at the coroner; who, after a brief glance at his notes, opened the examination.

"Perhaps, Doctor," said he, "it would save time if you were to give us your evidence in the form of a statement. You saw the body, I think, shortly after the discovery."

"Yes," replied the witness "On Monday evening, the ninth of September, at eight-fifty-six, I received a summons by telephone from the police to go to the mortuary to examine a body which had just been brought in. I went at once and arrived there at five minutes past nine. There I found the body of the deceased which had been undressed and laid on the mortuary table. At the first glance I formed the provisional opinion that deceased had died as a result of poisoning by hydrocyanic acid or some cyanide compound. The face, and especially the lips, were of a distinct violet colour. The eyes were wide open, set in a fixed stare. The jaws were firmly closed and there was slight stiffening of the muscles at the back of the neck. The hands were tightly clenched and the finger nails were blue. These are the usual appearances in cases of cyanide poisoning, but the froth on the lips, which nearly always occurs in such cases, was absent.

I examined the body for bruises or other signs of violence, but there were none, excepting that on the left thigh, a couple of inches from the groin, was a very distinct puncture which looked as if it had been made with a hypodermic needle of unusually large size. I was shown a broken syringe which had been found close to the body. It was not an ordinary hypodermic syringe but a larger kind; what is known as a serum syringe; and the needle was not a regular serum needle, but a longer and stouter form with a larger bore, such as is used by veterinary surgeons. I produce for your inspection an exactly similar syringe, but fitted with an ordinary serum needle, which you can compare with the broken syringe that was handed to you by the inspector."

He laid the syringe on the table and paused while the coroner and the jury compared it with the fragments in the box. When they had made the comparison and put the two syringes aside, he resumed: "The broken syringe and the needle both contained minute quantities of a clear liquid, which I collected in a pipette for subsequent analysis. But, at the time, I could tell by the characteristic smell of bitter almonds that it was one of the cyanide compounds."

"So that, in effect," said the coroner, "you had then established the cause of death."

"Yes," was the reply, "there was practically no room for doubt. The body showed the distinctive appearances of cyanide poisoning. There was no froth on the lips, which suggested that the poison had not been swallowed. There was the mark of a hypodermic needle, and there was a syringe containing traces of a cyanide compound. It was all perfectly consistent."

"You subsequently made a post mortem examination?"

"Yes; and, as it is very important in cases of poisoning by hydrocyanic acid or cyanide, I made the post-mortem the same night. But first I analysed the liquid in the pipette; which I found to be a concentrated solution of potassium cyanide."

"Did the post-mortem throw any fresh light on the case?"

"Not very much, but it converted the inference into an ascertained fact. I can say with certainty that deceased died from the effects of a very large dose of potassium cyanide injected into the upper part of the thigh —the region which is known as Scarpa's Triangle. But one, possibly important, fact came to light, which was that the needle of the syringe entered the great vein of the thigh—the femoral vein."

"In what respect is that fact of importance?" the coroner asked.

"In its bearing on the rapidity with which the poison will have taken effect. Five grains of potassium cyanide will, if swallowed, produce death in about a quarter of an hour. The same quantity injected hypodermically would cause death in a minute or two at the most; while if it were injected into one of the great veins, death would probably follow in a matter of seconds. Now, in the present case, a much larger quantity was discharged directly into this great vein; from which I infer that death must have occurred practically instantaneously."

"Is it possible to say how much was injected?"

"Not in exact terms. I made only a qualitative analysis. Anything like an exact estimate of quantity would have involved a long and complicated procedure and it would have served no useful purpose. But I can say confidently, that the amount of cyanide injected was at least ten grains."

"When you first saw the body, did you form any opinion as to how long deceased had been dead?"

"Yes. Judging principally by the temperature of the body, I should say that he had been dead about an hour."

"You mentioned some stiffening of the muscles—apparently rigor mortis. Would that occur so soon after death?"

"The clenching of the jaws and hands was not due to rigor mortis. It was really cadaveric spasm and will have occurred at the moment of death. But the stiffening of the neck muscles did indicate the beginning of rigor mortis and was, of course, much earlier than in the average of cases. But there is nothing remarkable in this early onset. It very commonly occurs in cases of violent death and especially of suicide. I don't think deceased had been dead more than about an hour."

The coroner wrote down this statement and appeared to scan the preceding evidence before putting the next question. At length he looked up and turned to the witness.

"You say that death was due to poison injected by means of a syringe. Could that injection have been administered by deceased himself?"

"Yes. The site chosen was not a very convenient one for self-administration but it was well within reach, and self-administration would not have been difficult."

"So far as you could judge from your examination, was there anything that suggested either that deceased had or had not administered the poison to himself?"

"In a medical sense and in terms of mere physical possibility, there was no evidence one way or the other."

The coroner looked at the witness critically, and then remarked: "I seem to detect a note of doubt and reservation in your answer. Is that not so?"

"Perhaps it is," the doctor replied. "But I am here as a medical witness and my evidence is properly restricted to what I know, or can reasonably infer from my examination of the body."

"That is a highly correct attitude, doctor," said the coroner with a faint smile, "but I don't think we need be quite so particular. Have you any opinion, medical or other, as to whether deceased did or did not administer the poison to himself?"

"I have," the witness replied promptly. "My opinion is that he did not administer the poison to himself."

"That is perfectly definite," said the coroner, "and I am sure the jury would like to hear your reasons for that opinion, as I should myself."

"My opinion," said Dr. Ripley, "is based upon the circumstances of the deceased's death. Either he killed himself or was killed by some other person. There is no question of accident or misadventure. It is either suicide or homicide. If we consider the theory of suicide, we are confronted by two anomalies.

The first is the syringe. Why should deceased have used a hypodermic syringe? There is no reason at all. In the case of morphia there would be a reason; for the poison acts comparatively slowly, and large doses, if swallowed, tend to cause vomiting and so defeat the suicide's ends. But cyanide poisons act very rapidly and tend to produce death before the stomach becomes disturbed. Suicide by means of potassium cyanide is not uncommon, but the usual method is to swallow one or more tablets; and this is quite efficient for the purpose. I have never before heard of a syringe being used for this poison.

"The conditions in the case of homicide are exactly the reverse. You can't compel a man to swallow a tablet or even a liquid poison. But you can stick a hypodermic needle into him even if he has time to resist. And then the peculiarities of this particular syringe are adapted to homicide but not at all to suicide. The big veterinary needle would cause considerable pain in insertion. Its only advantage, its large bore, enabling the syringe to be discharged rapidly, would be of no benefit to the suicide; but it would be of vital importance to a murderer, who would want to get the business over as quickly as possible and make off.

The other anomaly is the place where the death occurred. Why should a suicide, having provided himself with the poison and the syringe, go forth to use them in a public thoroughfare when he could have done the business without disturbance in his own premises? And why, if he chose a public place, should he have selected a dark corner in an unfrequented passage? To a suicide, the solitude and obscurity of the place would offer no advantage. But to a murderer, those conditions would be essential; for he would want to get clear of the neighbourhood before the body was discovered. In short, the mode of death, the means used, and the place selected, were all unadapted to suicide, but perfectly adapted to homicide."

As the doctor concluded his exposition, a murmur of approval arose from the jury, and the coroner, who also appeared to be deeply impressed, commented "Dr. Ripley has given us, in a very ingenious and cogent argument, his reasons for taking a particular view of this case, and I am sure that when we come to consider the evidence as a whole, we shall give them due weight. And now, as he is a busy man, I think we ought not to detain him any longer, unless any of you wish for further information."

He looked enquiringly at the jury, and the foreman, in response to the implied invitation, signified that he would like to put a question.

"The doctor," said he, "has referred to the solitude and obscurity of the place where the body was found. I should like to ask him if he has any personal acquaintance with that place."

"Yes," replied the witness, "I know it very well indeed. My practice is in the City of London and I am perfectly familiar with all the courts and alleys that form the short cuts from one main thoroughfare to others. As to St. Michael's Alley, I think that hardly a week passes in which I do not pass through it at least once."

"And if you pass through it," said the foreman, "I suppose other people do."

"Undoubtedly," the witness agreed; "and in the day a fair number of people pass up and down the alley, although after business hours, when the City has emptied, it is very little frequented. But the point is that when I go up the alley I go straight up to Castle Court; I don't turn off through the covered passage. And other people do the same, and for the same reason, which is that the covered passage also leads to Castle Court but by a less direct route. The only people who habitually use the covered passage are those who are employed in the office building that faces the churchyard. When they have gone, there are probably periods of half an hour or more during which not a soul passes through that passage."

The foreman expressed himself as quite satisfied with the explanation and thanked the witness, who was then released to go about his business. When he bad departed, the name of Alfred Stowell was called and a middle-aged, gentlemanly man came forward and took his place at the table. Mr. Stowell, having been sworn, gave his particulars, describing himself as the manager of The Cope Refrigerating Company, of Gracechurch Street, London.

"You have viewed the body of deceased," said the coroner. "Did you recognise it as that of anyone whom you knew?"

"Yes. It is the body of Mr. Abel Webb, lately my assistant manager."

"How long had he been with you?"

"Less than two months. He took up his duties with us on the twenty-second of last July."

"Do you know how he was employed before he came to you?"

"He was in the service of the Commonwealth and Dominion Steamship Company and had been for about ten years. He had served as purser on several of their ships and it was on account of his experience in that capacity that my firm engaged him."

"I don't quite follow that. In what way is a purser's experience of value to you?"

The ships of the Commonwealth Line are engaged in the frozen meat trade, and Mr. Webb had a rather special knowledge of refrigerating plant, as well as of the trade in general."

"What sort of person was deceased—as to temperament, I mean? Did he strike you as a man who might possibly take his own life?"

"Most certainly not," the witness replied. "He was of a singularly cheerful and happy disposition and very pleased with his new occupation after the long years at sea."

"Have you any reason to suppose that he was in financial difficulties or in any way troubled about money?"

"No reason at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. I gathered from certain remarks that he let fall that he was in very comfortable circumstances. He was a bachelor without any dependants or responsibilities and had been steadily saving money all the time that he was at sea. That is what I understood from him. Of course, I have no first-hand knowledge of his affairs."

"So far as you know, had deceased any enemies?"

"I am not aware that he had, and I have no reason to suppose that he had. In the excellent testimonial from his late employers he was described as an amiable and kindly man who was universally liked. I know no more than that."

"Do you know of anything that could throw light on the manner and circumstances of his death?"

"Nothing whatever," was the reply; and as this seemed to conclude the evidence, the coroner asked the jury the usual question, and when the depositions had been signed the witness was released.

For some time after he had retired, the coroner sat scanning his notes with a manifestly dissatisfied air. At length he confided his difficulties to the jury.

"There is no denying," said he, "that the evidence which we have heard has left this mysterious affair to a great extent unelucidated; and the question arises as to whether it is advisable to adjourn the inquiry and endeavour to obtain further evidence. On the whole, as the police have not succeeded in discovering any of deceased's relatives, I am disposed to think that nothing would be gained by an adjournment. The further elucidation, if it is possible, seems to lie outside our province and within that of the police. Accordingly, I think it will be best for us to try to find a verdict on the evidence which is before us.

"It is unnecessary for me to recapitulate that evidence. It was all very clearly given and you have followed it closely and attentively. The question that you have to decide is: Who injected the poison? If deceased injected it himself; it is obviously a case of suicide. If you decide that it was injected by some other person you will have to find a verdict of wilful murder, since the injection could not have been given for any lawful purpose.

"The difficulty of deciding between suicide and murder is that there is no positive evidence of either. The medical evidence is to the effect that suicide was physically possible and that murder was physically possible. That is all that we have in the way of positive evidence. And in considering the medical evidence we must be careful to keep the facts separate from the opinions. The facts sworn to by the medical witness we can accept confidently; but the witness's opinions, weighty though they are, can be accepted only so far as your judgment confirms them. It is you who have to find the verdict, and that verdict must be based on the evidence which you have heard and on nothing else. That, I think, is all I need say, except to remind you that you are not in the position of a jury at a criminal trial, who are bound to decide yes or no, guilty or not guilty. If, having considered the evidence, you find it insufficient to enable you to decide between the alternatives of murder and suicide, you are at liberty to say so."

When the coroner had finished speaking, the members of the jury drew together and engaged in earnest and anxious consultation. It was a difficult question that they had to settle and they very properly took their time in debating it. At length the foreman announced that they had agreed on their verdict, and in reply to the coroner's question stated "We find that deceased died from the effects of a poison injected into his body with a syringe, but whether the injection was administered by himself or by some other person there is no evidence to show."

"Yes," said the coroner," I don't see that you could have found otherwise. I shall record an open verdict and any further inquiries that may be necessary or possible will be conducted by the police."

The proceedings having now come to an end, the audience and the witnesses rose and filed out into the street; and as I took my way back to the bank I reflected a little uncomfortably on what I had heard. It was a horrible affair and profoundly mysterious. If I had been a member of the jury my verdict would have been the same as that had been recorded. But it would not have expressed my inward convictions. The doctor's convincing exposition, which still rang in my ears, had but confirmed in my mind an already formed belief.

The circumstance of the tragedy seemed to whisper 'Murder'; and as I entered Ball Court (instinctively avoiding the neighbourhood of the fatal passage) and threaded the maze of alleys into George Yard and Lombard Street, I looked about me with a shuddering interest, speculating on the way that poor Webb had gone to his death and wondering whether the callous murderer—with the charged syringe ready in his pocket—had walked at his side or had waylaid him in the covered passage.

Chapter 5 CLIFFORD'S INN

THE EVENTS OF THE EVENING which I had spent with John Gillum, though they threw a good deal of light on his financial affairs, by no means diminished my interest in, or curiosity concerning, those affairs. On the contrary, having now clearly established the principal channel through which his money flowed—virtually into the gutter—I found myself the more concerned with the question whether that was the sole channel or whether he might perchance be dropping money in ways even less desirable than gambling. I have mentioned that at intervals of about a month he was accustomed to present a "self" cheque for a considerable amount, never less, though usually more, than five hundred pounds. It might be that this represented merely "the sinews of war" for the month's gambling. But to my eye it looked like something different, something suggesting a definite periodic payment; and this view was strengthened by the fact that other drafts, often for large sums, were presented at irregular intervals. These, from their irregularity in time and amount, seemed much more likely to represent his gaming losses.

The periodic cheque was usually drawn about the fourteenth day of the month (rather suggesting a payment on the fifteenth) and it was Gillum's custom to notify the bank a day in advance of the amount of cash that he intended to withdraw. Accordingly, as the day drew near, I awaited the notification with some expectancy; and sure enough, on the morning of the thirteenth—two days after the inquest—it was delivered at the bank and shown to me by the manager, as Gillum usually elected to transact his business with me. This time the, amount was six hundred and fifty pounds; and as Gillum had a preference for notes that had been in circulation, some sorting out of the stock was necessary.

On the morning of the fourteenth, soon after the hank had opened, he made his appearance, and coming straight over to my "pitch," laid his cheque on the counter.

"I'm afraid I'm the bane of your life, Mortimer." said he, "with my big cash drafts. You ought to have a note-counting machine—turn a handle, shoot 'em out by the dozen and show the number on a dial."

"It would be a convenience," I admitted," though I doubt whether a court of law would accept the reading of the machine as evidence. But it is no great trouble to count a few hundred notes, and at any rate, it is what I am here for."

I brought out the bundles of notes that I had pre pared in readiness for the payment and having re-counted them, passed the bundles across to him.

"You had better check them," said I as he picked them up and stuffed them into his pocket.

"No need," he replied. "I'll take them as read. I'm not equal to your lightning manipulation, and if we differed I should be sure to be wrong."

He paused to distribute the seven bundles more evenly and then, as there were no customers waiting at the moment, lingered to gossip. "I hope," said he, "you were none the worse for our little dissipation."

"Thank you, no," I replied. "A little sleepy the next morning, but I am quite convalescent now."

"Good," said he. "We must have another outing soon, not quite so boisterous. We might go and hear some music."

"That is quite a good idea," said I, "and it reminds me that an opportunity presents itself this very day. Do you care for organ music?"

"I like it in church," he replied; "not so much in a concert hall. The appropriate atmosphere seems to be lacking."

"Then," said I, "perhaps you would like to come with me this evening to St. Peter's, Cornhill. There is to be an organ recital from six to seven by Dr. Dyer. I am going, and if you can manage it, I can promise you a musical treat."

He considered for a few moments and then replied: "It sounds rather alluring and I've got the evening free. So I accept subject to conditions; which are that after the recital you come along to my chambers and join me in a little rough bachelor dinner. I can't do you in Giamborini's style but you won't starve. When we have fed, we can either smoke a pipe and yarn or go out somewhere. What do you say?"

I accepted promptly, for the proposed entertainment was much more to my taste than a restaurant dinner; and when we had made the necessary arrangements he took his leave and I reverted to my duties.

At half-past five he reappeared at the bank and found me waiting outside, and we strolled together up Gracechurch Street, looking in at Leadenhall Market on our way, and took our seats in the church at five minutes to the hour. The fame of the organist had drawn a surprisingly large number of men and women to the recital, and it was evident by the instant hush that fell as soon as the music began that Dr. Dyer had a genuinely appreciative audience.

And I was interested, and a little surprised, to note that Gillum not only enjoyed but—as I gathered ii ut his whispered comments in the intervals—followed the rather austere and technical works that were played with manifest sympathy and understanding. One would hardly have associated the gambling den and the racecourse with a refined taste for music. But Gillum was a rather queer mixture in many respects.

When the recital came to an end, we set forth on foot to stretch our legs and sharpen our appetites with the walk of a little over a mile from Cornhill to Clifford's Inn, beguiling the short journey with a discussion of the music that we had been listening to, and comments on objects of interest that we observed by the way. In Fleet Street Gillum gave me another mild surprise by halting me opposite Anderton's Hotel and bidding me note the fine silhouette that St. Dunstan's Church and the Law Courst made against the sunset sky.

"I always stop here to look at the view," said he, "and although the shapes are always the same, the picture is different every time I see it. There is a lot of fine scenery of a kind in the streets of London."

Once more, as we walked on, I reflected on the strange contradictions and inconsistencies of my companion's temperament. Somehow, he managed to combine a sensitiveness to the picturesque and beautiful with a singular tolerance of the sordid and unlovely.

A few yards farther on we turned up Fetter Lane, and crossing the road, made for an iron gate set in a row of railings and now standing wide open. Entering, we found ourselves in the precincts of Clifford's Inn and seemed in a moment to have passed out of the clamorous twentieth century into the quiet and dignified repose of a bygone age. I knew the place slightly from having occasionally ventured in to explore and I now looked round with friendly recognition of the pleasant old red brick houses and the slightly faded grass and trees in the garden.

"This is my lair," said Gillum, indicating an arched doorway lighted by a hanging lantern and surmounted by a tablet bearing the inscription "P.R.G. 1682." Within the deep portal a shadowy flight of stairs faded away into profound obscurity, and when Gillum led the way in and up the stairs, he too, faded into the darkness and became a mere black shape against the dim light from the landing above. I groped my way up after him (for the lamp at the entry was not yet lit) and presently emerged on to the landing where I found my host inserting a key into a massive iron-bound door above which was painted in black letters on a faded white ground, "Mr. John Gillum." The forbidding, gaol-like door swung open heavily disclosing a lighter inner door garnished with an ordinary handle and a small brass knocker. Gillum turned the handle, and throwing open the door, invited me to enter; and as soon as I was inside, he pulled to the outer door, which closed with the snap of a spring latch and a resounding clang suggestive of the door of a prison cell.

"Just as well to sport the oak," said Gillum. "Not that anyone ever comes after business hours, but it is more pleasant to feel that you can't be interrupted."

He switched on the light and I was instantly impressed, by the contrast of the cheerful, cosy interior with the rather grim approach. A fire— well banked and enclosed by a guard—was burning in the grate, a couple of easy chairs faced each othier companionably, and the table, covered with a spotless white cloth, was laid with all the necessary appointments for a meal.

Gillum was a good host. This was a simple, informal "feed" and I was not a guest but a pal who had dropped in. He established the position at once by setting me to work at decanting the bottle of claret that had been stood on the mantel shelf to get the chill off, while he attended to the fire.

"May as well make a bit of a blaze," said he, "though it isn't a cold evening. But a fire is a companionable thing."

He tipped the remaining contents of the scuttle into the grate and then, after a hesitating glance at the empty receptacle, put it down.

"Where do you keep your coal?" I asked, with a view to replenishment.

"In the larder, or cellar or store-room," he replied. "It's that door across the landing, and a most excellent larder it makes; perfectly cool even in the height of summer. And that reminds me that we shall want the butter and cheese and perhaps we might as well get out a bottle of Chablis to go with the lobster—and, by the way, the lobster is in there, too."

He went to the door and I followed to give assistance in carrying the goods. Not unnecessarily, as it turned out, for the door across the landing was fitted, not only with a night latch, but also with a rather strong spring, fixed to the inside of the door, as the latter opened outwards. I stood with my back against the open door and received the butter and the lobster, holding them until Gillum collected the cheese and the wine and came out, when I moved away and the door closed with a slam and a click of the lock.

"Now, Mortimer," said Gillum, when he had deposited our burdens on the table, "you are the wine waiter. Just open the chablis while I go into the kitchen and hot up the soup."

He retired through one of two small doorways which faced each other at the farther side of the room and I began operations on the capsule of the bottle. But at this moment the empty coal-scuttle caught my eye, and at the same time it occurred to me that we must have left the key in the larder door, since we had both come away with our hands full. With the double purpose of retrieving the key and replenishing the scuttle, I picked up the latter and carried it out to the landing; and, sure enough, there was the key in the door. I turned it, and bearing the spring in mind, when I had pulled the door open I set the scuttle against it while I went in and switched on the light. Then I took up the scuttle, carefully easing the door to, so that it remained unlatched (though there was a knob on the inside by which I could have let myself out), and proceeded to prospect. There was no difficulty in locating the coal, for a large bin or locker that extended right along the farther wall was so well filled that its lid gaped and displayed its contents.

I threw up the lid of the locker, and, taking the scoop from the scuttle, began rapidly to shovel out the coal, my movements rather accelerated by the unpleasant cellar-like atmosphere, which struck an uncomfortable chill in contrast with the warm dining-room. I soon had the scuttle filled, but in my haste I a few lumps of coal fall on the floor. Having put the scoop back in its socket, I stooped to pick up the stray lumps with my fingers. And at that moment I was conscious of a sudden feeling of giddiness and a loud ringing noise in my ears. Whether it was due to my position or to the abrupt change of temperature I cannot say; but as the place seemed to whirl around me and I felt myself swaying as if I were about to fall, I hastily grabbed the edge of the locker, pulled myself upright and staggered out on to the landing.

As I emerged from the larder, letting the door slam behind me, Gillum appeared at the door of the living it and stared at me in dismay.

"Good God, Mortimer!" he exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter?"

Without waiting for an explanation, he hustled me into the living-room, threw up the window, and dragging a chair towards it, sat me down in the full draught.

"What was it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I just stooped to pick up a lump of coal and then I suddenly turned giddy."

"Strange," said he, looking at me anxiously. "Have you ever had any attacks like this before?"

"Never," I answered; "and I can't imagine what brought it on now. I suppose it was the sudden stooping."

"But that won't do, Mortimer," said he. "You've no business to get giddy from stooping at your age. I don't believe you take proper care of yourself. You'd better let me get you a nip of whisky."

"No, thank you," said I. "The fresh air has done the business. I am all right now excepting a slight headache, and I expect that will go off in a few minutes. By the way, I left the light on in the larder."

"I'll go and switch off and get the coal-scuttle," said he, "and then we will have some grub. That will complete the cure, with a glass of wine."

He went out and presently returned with the scuttle, shutting the "oak" behind him. Then he fetched the soup from the kitchen and we drew our chairs up to the table and proceeded to business.

It was a pleasant little dinner, and not so very little, for when we had disposed of the lobster, the raising of a couple of covers revealed a cold roast fowl and a pile of sliced ham, the produce, as I learned, of an invaluable shop in Fetter Lane. Moreover, as the food was cold it lent itself to leisurely consumption and the free flow of conversation. And conversation with Gillum naturally tended to drift in the direction of betting and play.

"How is the infallible system progressing?" I asked.

"Slowly," he admitted, "but still, I think the thing is possible. I don't make much of it from the mathematical direction, so I am falling back on the excellent method of trial and error. I have got a miniature roulette box and I find it invaluable for trying out schemes of chances. I'll show it to you."

He produced a beautifully made little wooden box, and placing it on the table, affectionately twisted the ivory spindle.

"Yes," I agreed, "it is an excellent contraption, for you can play any odds you like against yourself and win in any event. I should advise you to stick to it. Do your gambling at home—and let the Foucaults have a rest."

He laughed, rather grimly I thought.

"Perhaps," said he, "it might rather be a question of their letting me have a rest. But your advice is futile, as you know perfectly well. Solo roulette is well enough for experimental purposes, but it isn't sport and it isn't gambling. You can't gamble if you don't stand to win or lose."

Of course, I knew this and his reply left me with nothing to say; so I reverted to the roast fowl and inwardly speculated on the possibility of a connection between the Foucaults and the morning's transaction at the bank. He had spoken as if they gave him more attention than he cared for, but obviously the subject was one that I could not even approach. When, searching for some new topic, I suddenly remembered the circumstances of our first meeting and their later developments, in which Gillum might probably be interested.

"I intended," said I, "to bring you a copy of The Telegraph which I kept for you. It contains a full report of the inquest on that poor fellow whose body I discovered. But perhaps you have seen it."

"I have," he replied. "I saw a pretty full account of it in an evening paper. Extraordinary affair. Rather horrible, too. I liked the way in which that doctor fellow let out. He knew his own mind."

"Yes, he was remarkably outspoken for a medical witness. But I certainly agreed with him, and so, I think, did the jury. If he hadn't been so downright I suspect the verdict would have been suicide while temporarily insane."

"Very likely. But what was there to suggest insanity?"

"Nothing that I know of," I replied. "I was only repeating the usual formula. When a man commits suicide it is generally assumed that he was temporarily insane when he did it."

"I know," said Gillum. "But it is just a convention, and a silly convention which ought to be dropped. Really, it is a theological survival. The pretence of insanity is for the purpose of proving that deceased was not aware of the nature of his act and that there fore he was not guilty of felo de se and did not die in a state of mortal sin. It was quite well meant, but it was always a false pretence; and now that we have outgrown theological crudities of that sort, the formula ought to be abolished excepting in cases where there is actual evidence of insanity."

He spoke with an amount of feeling that rather surprised me. For it did not appear to me that the point was of any importance. Nor did I entirely agree with his view of the matter, and accordingly proceeded to contest it.

"I don't think that is quite the position, Gillum," I objected. "No doubt there is a theological factor, but the usual verdict is based on the assumption that the very act of suicide constitutes evidence of mental unsoundness; and I think it is quite a reasonable assumption."

"Why do you think so?" he demanded.

"Because," I replied, "the impulse of self-preservation—the preservation of one's own life—is so universal and so deep-seated as to amount to one of the fundamental instincts of intelligent living beings. But an act which is in opposition to a natural instinct is an abnormal act and affords evidence of an abnormal state of mind."

"I admit the instinct," he rejoined. "But man is a reasoning animal and is not completely dominated by his instincts. If in a particular case he is convinced that the following of those instincts is to his disadvantage, surely it will be reasonable for him to disregard them and adopt the action which he knows is to his advantage. Let us take an instance. Suppose a man to be suffering from a painful and incurable form of malignant disease. He knows that it is going to kill him within a measurable time. He knows that until death releases him he will suffer continual pain. Is he going to drag on a miserable existence, waiting for the inevitable death, or will he not, if he is a man, anticipate that death and cut short his sufferings?"

He had put his case with such cogency that I was rather at a loss. Nevertheless, I objected, somewhat weakly: "The instance you give is a very exceptional one. The conditions are quite abnormal."

"Exactly," he rejoined. "That is my point. The conditions being abnormal, the common rules of normal conduct do not apply. The conduct is adjusted to the conditions and consequently is rational a But that is true, I think, in a large proportion of suicides. If you consider them in detail with an open mind you must come to the conclusion that the act is a reasonable response to the existing conditions."

"I doubt that," said I. "The case that you have cited I should be disposed to admit, but I can think of no other."

"The point is," said he, "whether the conduct is or is not adapted to the existing conditions. If it is it is rational conduct. And a man is entitled to estimate those conditions for himself to decide whether they are or are not acceptable; whether, m those conditions, he would rather be alive or not. Whether, in short, life is or is not worth living. If he decides that it is not, then it is reasonable for him to bring it to an end."

"My point is," I rejoined, "that a normal man would always rather be alive than not."

"Then, Mortimer," said he, "I think you are mistaken. Let us take a concrete case. Suppose a man, like yourself, an employee of a bank, tied down to a particular place. Suppose he has a quarrelsome wife who makes his life a misery and perhaps gets him into debt, and a family who arc a constant trouble and disgrace to him. What is he to do? He can't escape because he is tied to his job. If he finds life intolerably unpleasant under these conditions, which he cannot alter, what could be more reasonable than for him to bring it to an end? Or again, take the case of a man who has inherited a fortune and has had a roaring good time enjoying all sorts of expensive pleasures. The natural result is that he steadily gets through his money. Now when he comes down to his last shilling what is the prospect before him? What is the natural thing for him to do?"

"The most reasonable thing," I replied, "would be to turn over a new leaf; to get a job, work hard at it and live within his means."

Gillum shook his head. "No, Mortimer," said he. "That would not be possible to the type of man that I am describing. He couldn't do it, and he wouldn't try. If he was absolutely broke, he could try to live by sponging, by borrowing, by fraud or by some other form of crime, but either method would bring him, sooner or later, to disaster; and almost certainly, in the end, to suicide. But I contend that the more reasonable plan would be to anticipate and avoid all these troubles. When once his money was gone and the only kind of life that he cared for had become impossible, I say that the sane and sensible thing for him to do would be to recognise the facts and make his quietus—though not with a bare bodkin."

"But," I exclaimed, "do you mean to tell me seriously that is what you would do, as a considered act, in the circumstances that you mention?"

He laughed and shook a finger at me in mock reproof. "Now, Mortimer," said he, "you know that is quite an improper question. We are considering a hypothetical case, and in effect, a certain question of principle. But you immediately—and quite irrelevantly—turn it into a personal question. What I, personally, might do is beside the mark."

"I don't see that it is," I objected. "If you really mean what you say, I understand that if ever you should go stony broke with no possible chance of recovery you would proceed at once, as a matter of considered policy, to hang yourself or cut your throat."

No, no, Mortimer," he protested, "I said nothing about hanging or throat-cutting. That would be temporary insanity with a vengeance. No, pray do me the justice of believing that, if the occasion arose, I should perform the coil-shuffling operation with decency, dignity, and the maximum of personal corn fort. The rope and the carving knife are the wretched resources of the mere lunatic or moron. There is no excuse for such barbarities when, as we know, there are certain medicinal substances which are perfectly efficient for the purpose and which are not only painless but rather agreeable in their operation."

To this I made no reply, for there had come on me a sudden dislike to the turn that the discussion had taken. He had spoken semi-facetiously, but yet there was an underlying seriousness that gave his words a rather gruesome quality. So I let the discussion drop and, after a short silence, directed our talk into a fresh channel.

After dinner Gillum brewed a pot of excellent coffee and we then adjourned to the easy chairs to smoke our pipes and talk; and as I listened to my host's comments and observations on the various topics that we discussed, I was surprised—having regard to the outrageous folly of his conduct—not only at the range of his knowledge and general in formation but especially at the shrewdness and sanity of his outlook. Moreover, he was a man of some culture. I had already noticed his interest in the more serious forms of music and his lively appreciation of the fine grouping and skyline of the buildings of Fleet Street, and it now appeared that he shared my affection for the quaint nooks and corners and antique survivals of the older parts of London and seemed to have a quite extensive acquaintance with them. Indeed, so pleasant and sympathetic was our gossip and so agreeably did the time slip away that I was quite taken aback when St. Dunstan's clock, reinforced by the more distant bells of St. Clement's, announced the hour of eleven and bade me set forth on my journey homewards.

"I will pilot you out as far as Fleet Street," said Gillum, as he helped me into my overcoat. "Next time you will know your way; and I hope the next will be quite soon."

"You have given me every inducement to repeat the offence," I replied. "It has been a jolly evening. Quite a red-letter day for me."

We sallied forth from the dark entry—but it was dark no longer now that the lamp was alight—and, crossing the courtyard, plunged into the tunnel which passes the Hall, and, crossing the little courtyard, entered Clifford's Inn Passage. The main gate was shut and the night porter sat on a chair by the wicket, holding a newspaper and conversing with a spectacled gentleman who was formally arrayed in a frock coat and tall hat and supported himself on an umbrella.

"That is Mr. Weech," said Gillum, "the Inn porter; a queer old bird, quite a character in his way and a complete Victorian survival. I'll introduce you as you like antiques."

As we approached, Mr. Weech opened the wicket for us and gave my companion "good evening."

"Good evening, Mr. Weech," said Gillum. Taking a last look round to see that we are all safe before you turn in?"

"That is so," replied Mr. Weech. "It is my custom to conclude the day's duty with a perambulation of the precincts to see that everything is in order."

"A very wise precaution," said Gillum. "It's of no use to have a locked gate if the doubtful characters are lurking inside. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Mortimer, who has been spending the evening with me, so that you may know him in future as an accredited visitor. This is Mr. Weech, the custodian of the Inn and the faithful guardian of our security. As you see, he carries an umbrella as a symbol of his protective functions. Isn't that so, Mr. Weech? I notice that you are never without it."

Mr. Weech chuckled and glanced fondly at the symbol.

"I suppose I am not," he admitted. "When I put on my hat I take up the umbrella automatically. It has become a habit and I do it without thinking. Consuetudo alterus naturum, as the saying is."

"Well," said I, as I stepped through the wicket, "it is a wise habit in a fickle climate like ours. Good-night, Mr. Weech."

He raised his hat with an old-fashioned flourish as he returned my valediction, and Gillum and I walked slowly down the passage to Fleet Street.

"An odd fish is Mr. Weech," Gillum remarked. Quite a good sort but odd. I believe he takes that umbrella to bed with him. And he's a devil for Latin. I suspect he keeps a book of quotations and primes himself with them for conversation. Well, good night, Mortimer. Take care of yourself and come again soon."

As I made my way homewards to my lodgings I turned over the events of the evening. It had been a pleasant experience and Gillum had been a most agreeable companion. Indeed, I had been rather surprised at the way in which he had improved on better acquaintance and I was still puzzled by the contrast between his obvious intelligence and culture and the idiotic manner in which he was wasting his life and his substance. But as I recalled our conversation there was one item that jarred on me badly. Gillum's defence of suicide may have been partly playful. Evidently, he rather inclined to the role of the Devil's Advocate and took a perverse pleasure in arguing and defending a paradox. But still, I had an unpleasant feeling that the views that he had expressed really represented his convictions. And what made the recollection of his argument especially disturbing to me was the fact that one of the cases that he had cited in illustration was alarmingly like what his own case might be. At present, it is true, his wild expenditure was balanced by his very ample income. He never overdrew; and as long as his income continued at its present rate, he would remain solvent and merely waste his possessions.

But suppose some day, his source of income should dry up. Then he would soon be penniless and would quite possibly fall into debt. And if he did, the very conditions that he had postulated as justifying suicide would be brought into being. It was a profoundly disturbing thought; and though I tried to put it away, it recurred again and again, not only during my journey home, but at intervals in the days that followed.

Chapter 6 THE PASSING OF JOHN GILLUM

HITHERTO I HAVE FOLLOWED in rather close detail the circumstances of my association with John Gillum. This I have done advisedly; since the purpose of this narrative is to present as clear a picture as I am able of his personality and manner of life. But, having done this, I shall now pass more lightly over the events that occurred during the remainder of our association. That association, which extended over a period of about ten months, was fairly intimate and tended to become more so as the time ran on. Gillum was an entirely acceptable companion; cheerful, lively, humorous, and extremely well-informed. And, apparently, he liked my society, for he took every opportunity of cultivating it. The result was that we met as frequently as could be expected in the case of two rather self-contained men, each of whom had his own particular interests and occupations.

Sometimes he would call for me at the bank, but more commonly our rendezvous was Clifford's Inn, where we would take tea and then sally forth to spend the evening at a concert or a play or in a voyage of discovery into the lesser-known parts of the London in which we were both so much interested. Once, on an off day, I accompanied him to a race meeting, where he narrowly missed winning a considerable sum but actually —as I learned later—dropped about a hundred pounds. But this was the only occasion on which I came into contact with his gambling activities. He had, in his tactful, accommodating way, accepted the fact that betting and games of chance were outside the sphere of my interests and such evidence as came to me of his exploits at the tables or on the turf was in the nature of hearsay. But the books of the bank furnished direct evidence that, whatever those exploits may have been, the net result was displayed on the debit side of his account.

As the period of our friendship lengthened I began to be aware of a rather curious fact; which was that, intimate as we seemed to be, I really knew nothing about him. It was rather remarkable. In respect of his present mode of life and his daily doings he was—or, at least, appeared to be—open even to expansiveness. But of his past life or his antecedents, not a word was ever dropped. Gradually I came to realise that, under this appearance of free and frank confidence, lay a profound secretiveness. It was not a pleasing trait; and it occasioned a certain amount of reflection on my part. And when I came to consider it, I began to perceive that the secretiveness was not limited to the past; for, with all his expansiveness, he never made the slightest references to those periodical drafts on which I had looked—and still looked—with so much suspicion. In short, it began gradually to dawn on me that the confidences that he made with so much apparent openness were in fact limited to what I, in my capacity as his banker, already knew.

Of course, I asked no questions. But, naturally, as I reflected on this secretive habit, amounting virtually to concealment, it aroused some curiosity. I am not in general an inquisitive person. But when I came to consider that this man, with whom I was on terms of daily intimacy, was an absolute stranger to me; that I knew nothing whatever of his past, of his relations, of the places where he had lived, of his profession or calling, if he had any, or of how he passed his time or whether he had any occupation other than gambling; it could not but appear very remarkable. And these reflections inevitably led to others. If his past life was never referred to, could there be any reason for this reticence? Was there anything in his past that made concealment necessary?

The question was not entirely without relevance. The periodical drafts, which had always seemed to me to suggest periodical payments, had raised a suspicion that he was being blackmail and as time went on, this suspicion tended to grow. But how should he come to be blackmailed? There is no smoke without fire. It is usually impossible to blackmail a man unless there is something in his life that he is unwilling to disclose. Could it be that his past was in some respects unpresentable? Or could it be that, even now, he was engaged in some activities that would not bear the light of day?

These questions presented themselves unsought and unwelcomed. For I liked the man and was unwilling to think ill of him or to harbour suspicions concerning him. Still, there were the facts, and I had to recognise them though the process of recognition cost me some mental discomfort. But presently I began to have anxieties of a different kind. I had always assumed that Gillum's income was derived from a permanent source. The large sums that he had paid in at approximately regular intervals had appeared to represent something in the nature of dividends or an annuity. But in the last month of my acquaintance with him this regularity had become suddenly disturbed. One or two large cheques—unusually large ones—had been paid in, but the balance created by them had begun immediately to melt away. I waited in expectation of the usual credit payment. But the time when it should have become due passed and no such payment was made; and Gillum's account began to show an uncomfortably small balance. It looked rather alarmingly like a failure of the source of supply.

Now, so long as his income was regular, his ridiculous expenditure merely kept him poor when he should have been rich. But with the failure of the supply and the continuance of the expenditure, a very different situation was created. As I scanned his account in our books and noted the growing tendency for the debit to overgrow the credit, I felt that—unless there were some change in the conditions—sooner or later, and probably sooner rather than later, some sort of crash was to be looked for; and, knowing what his ideas were as to the way to meet a crash, I had already dimly envisaged the kind of disaster which actually occurred, and of which I shall now proceed to relate the circumstances.

It was in the early afternoon of a rather sultry day in July that a tall, sunburnt, athletic-looking man came to the bank and asked to see the manager, explaining that he had been sent by Mr. Penfield and that his business was connected with the affairs of our customer, Mr. John Gillum. On this I pricked up my ears, and when he had been ushered into the manager's room, I waited expectantly for the summons which seemed almost inevitable, having regard to my known intimacy with Gillum; and sure enough, in a few minutes, the bell rang and the clerk who went in to answer it returned to inform me that the manager wished to speak to me. Accordingly I went in and found the manager and the visitor seated on opposite sides of a small table.

"This," said the former, introducing me, "is Mr. Arthur Benson, a cousin of Mr. Gillum's, who has called to make some enquiries; and as you know Mr. Gillum personally as well as officially, you will probably be able to give him more information than I can. Mr. Mortimer is, I think I may say, a fairly intimate friend of your cousin's, Mr. Benson, and may be able to tell you what you want to know."

Mr. Benson shook hands heartily and proceeded at once with his enquiries.

"I am in rather a difficulty, Mr. Mortimer," said he, "and I may add, a little puzzled and worried by the way in which my cousin is behaving. But I had better begin by explaining the circumstances. I have just come from Australia, where I run a sheep farm in which my cousin, Gillum, is to some extent interested. I have been in regular correspondence with him about our affairs and have sent him cheques from time to time, which have been duly acknowledged. Now, as the business which has brought me to England arose quite unexpectedly, I wrote to him from Sydney telling him that I should be coming on by the next boat and asking him either to meet me at Tilbury or to send a letter to the ship there telling me where and when I should find him. Well, he didn't meet me at Tilbury, but he sent a letter which was handed to me as soon as the ship brought up in the river. In this he asked me to come straight on to his chambers in Clifford's Inn.

"Accordingly, I did so; but when I called at his chambers, I could not get any answer to my knock. The place was all shut up, and though I hammered at the iron-bound door with my stick for some time, nothing happened. It was evident that he was not at home.

"This seemed a bit queer and not at all what I should have expected of him. However, I went off and got fixed up at an hotel, and then I came back to the Inn and made another attack on the door. But still there was no sign of life; so I gave it up for the time and went back to my hotel and spent the night there. Next day, I went to the Inn again and had another try. But still there was no result. The place was as still as the grave.

"It was really very extraordinary and I began to wonder whether there could be anything amiss. So I went on to Mr. Penfield, who acted for us in our business transactions, and asked him if he knew anything about Gillum's movements. But he knew nothing at all, not having seen my cousin for some months, but he recommended me to come along here and see whether you knew anything about him or could give me any advice. So here I am; and the question is, can you give me any sort of help or tell me where I may be likely to find him?"

The manager looked at me. "What do you say, Mortimer? You know Mr. Gillum's haunts pretty well, I think. Have you any idea where he is likely to be found?"

"Not the least," I replied. "I should have expected him to be at his chambers, especially as he had made an appointment with Mr. Benson. That is where he lives, and I had always supposed that he, at least, spent the night there."

"When did you see him last?" the manager asked.

"I haven't seen him for nearly a fortnight," I replied. "The last time that I saw him was when he came to the bank last Friday week to cash a cheque. I had a few words with him then but he did not say anything about his intended movements; and, in fact, he could not have had any intention of going away as he had made this appointment with Mr. Benson."

The manager looked thoughtful and rather puzzled. "It really does seem a little queer," said he, "and I think we ought to try to help Mr. Benson as he is a stranger in London. What do you suggest, Mortimer?"

"I hardly know what what to suggest," I replied. "It is certainly an odd affair. Perhaps it might be worth while for me to run round with Mr. Benson to Clifford's Inn and try the door again and if we still can't get any answer we might drop in at the lodge and see if we can get any information from Mr. Weech, the porter of the Inn. He might be able to tell us something."

"Yes," said the manager, "that seems about the best thing to do. At any rate, it is worth trying. So perhaps you will kindly take Mr. Benson in tow and see what you can do for him."

With this he stood up and shook hands with Benson, and the latter then accompanied me into the outer office, and when I had got my hat and stick we sallied forth together.

It is no great distance from Gracechurch Street to Clifford's Inn and we agreed to walk; Benson for the advantage of seeing the town and I for the opportunity to think things over and possibly get a little additional information. For, as I have hinted, I was more disturbed by the strange state of affairs than I had admitted either to the manager or to our visitor. I had not mentioned to them the amount of the cheque which had been cashed less than a fortnight ago, but it came to my mind now with a slightly ominous suggestiveness. The amount had been two hundred pounds, which I had paid in one-pound notes; and that payment had not only cleared out the balance but had left the account a few pounds overrdrawn.

Reflecting on this, I ventured to make one or two discreet enquiries though avoiding direct questions.

"Your name is fairly familiar to me," I began as a cautious lead off.

"I suppose it is," he replied. "You must have had a good many of my cheques through your hands."

"Yes," said I. "They have come in at pretty regular intervals until just lately. But I don't think I have seen one for over three months. However, the last one was quite a big cheque, if I remember rightly."

"It was," said he; "eleven hundred pounds. That was the final payment."

"Indeed!" said I, rather startled. "Then it was not a continuing transaction?"

"No," he replied. "The payments were instalments of purchase money. The sheep farm that I run originally belonged to Gillum. But he had a fancy to come to England and I was connected with a meat-exporting establishment; so he proposed that I should take over the farm and pay for it by instalments out of income while he should buy with the proceeds, or part of them, a partnership in a firm of meat importers in London. He thought that we could work things to our mutual advantage, and so did I. So I fixed up the deal with him and he came to England and arranged the partnership; and I paid off my debt as well as I could out of income. But after nearly two years I thought that it had gone on for long enough, so I raised a loan and paid off the final instalment in one sum."

"By the way," said I, "did it not occur to you to go round to his firm and ask if he had been there?"

"It did," he replied. "I went there before I went to Mr. Penfield. And then I got another surprise. It seemed that he didn't take to the meat-importing trade and about six months ago he sold his interest in the concern to the other partner and they have not seen anything of him since. It is curious that he should not have said anything about it to me in his letters."

"Very curious," I agreed. And it certainly was very remarkable. But it was not the oddity of his behaviour that principally impressed me. What instantly struck me with devastating force was the appalling fact that, at this moment, John Gillum must be absolutely penniless. Those big cheques had been paid in to my knowledge and had produced a most impressive balance; but that balance had been dribbling away ever faster and faster as the "self" cheques were turned into cash to provide the means for his insane expenditure. And now, as I have said, he had not only drawn out the last penny of his balance but was actually in debt to the bank.

It was a terrible position; and when I reflected on it by the light of his expressed views on the appropriate way to meet a financial crash, the behaviour disclosed by Benson's experiences assumed an undeniably sinister aspect. I said nothing to my companion as to what was in my mind, but, as we approached the neighbourhood of Clifford's Inn, my forebodings became so profound as to engender a very definite distaste for the errand on which I was bent.

We entered the Inn by the postern gate in Fetter Lane, and, crossing the little quadrangle which I knew so well, made our way straight to the rather forbidding entry. As we plunged into the shadow which enclosed the staircase, I could hear the typewriters in the ground-floor office ticking away, conveying a sense of human life and activity which seemed to contrast almost uncannily with the silence and aloofness of the— presumably—empty room upstairs.

We groped our way up the dim staircase and came out on the rather sordid and ill-lighted landing where the empty dust-bin confirmed the suggestion of an absent tenant. But we did not stop to examine the landing. Walking up to the grim iron-bound door, above which the name of Mr. J. Gillum could be read on a painted label, now rather faded and dirt-stained, we listened for a few moments and then tapped on the massive oak panel. Perhaps the word "tapped" is inadequate, for Benson, who carried a stout stick of some hard and heavy wood, applied it in the manner of a battering-ram with such effect that the place resounded with the blows and I expected some protest from the office below.

"Well," said Benson, after banging away for a couple of minutes, "I think we may take it that there is no one at home. Shall we go round and hear what your porter man has got to tell us?"

"I think we had better," I replied; and forthwith led the way down the steep stairs, my state of mind by no means improved by the unpleasant fashion in which the noise of Benson's hammerings had echoed through the building. In fact, I found myself growing distinctly nervous and, as we made our way towards the passage in which the porter's lodge was situated, I began to consider what we had better do if we could get no more satisfactory tidings of the missing man. But I still had some hopes that the porter might be able to resolve the mystery or at least give us a hint of some kind.

A hearty pull at the pendent handle outside the lodge door elicited a cheerful jangle from within; and in a few moments the door opened and Mr. Weech appeared, fully attired as usual in his long frock coat and tall silk hat. Whether he slept in that hat I cannot guess, but it seemed that he wore it constantly from the time when he arose in the morning until he retired at night. At least, that was my impression, for I never saw him without it. He now regarded me benevolently through his spectacles and then cast an enquiring glance at my companion.

"We have called, Mr. Weech," said I, "to make one or two enquiries and see if you can help us. A rather unaccountable thing has happened. My friend, Mr. Gillum, seems to be absent from his chambers. We have hammered at his door and can't get any answer, and my friend here, Mr. Benson, tried yesterday and the day before, but he also could not make anybody hear."

Mr. Weech retired for a few moments, apparently to fetch an umbrella, for he reappeared with one in his hand; and thus fortified, he again inspected me, first through his spectacles and then over them and replied in a tone of mild protest:

"But what about it, Mr. Mortimer? A gentleman is not bound to stay in his chambers if he doesn't want to. He isn't under any contract to be in residence excepting at his own convenience and by his own choice. Probably he has gone out of town for a few days. Gentlemen frequently do; and they are not under any obligation to give notice of their intentions. That is the advantage of living in chambers."

"Yes," I replied, "but that is not quite the position. Mr. Gillum had an appointment with Mr. Benson at his chambers and it was a rather special one, definitely made by letter. Mr. Gillum could hardly have gone away for a holiday and ignored this engagement.'

Here I gave Mr. Weech a slight sketch of the circumstances to which he listened with interest and growing attention.

"M'yes," he agreed, when I had finished, "it does sound a little remarkable, the way you put it. Of course, he might have overlooked the matter, but that doesn't seem likely. Still, I certainly have not seen him about the Inn for the last day or two."

"When did you last see him?" Benson asked.

Mr. Weech considered for a few moments. "Now, let me see," said he. "I met him one evening just outside the Hall. He was coming down towards Fleet Street. Now, when would that be? I should say it would be about ten days ago. He reflected again and then confirmed his estimate with the definite statement: "Yes. Ten days ago it was. I can fix it by the fact that one of our tenants, who was a bit in arrears with his rent, came to the lodge to settle up. And very glad I was. The Court don't like rents to get behindhand."

"Very well, Mr. Weech," said I. "You haven't seen him for ten days. Now is that at all unusual?"

Mr. Weech, having duly considered the question, decided that it was slightly unusual. "You see," he explained, "I am pretty constantly up and down the Inn and I tend to run up against the resident tenants, particularly if they are fairly regular in their habits, as Mr. Gillum is. I should think I must have met him nearly every day since he came here. And he is a rather sociable man and likes to stop for a bit of a chat."

"Then," said I, "that seems to confirm our idea that there is something unusual about this affair. I suppose you don't happen to have a duplicate key of his chambers?"

Mr. Weech seemed to stiffen at my suggestion. "We don't usually keep duplicate keys of gentle men's chambers," he replied. "The agreements stipulate that the tenants shall have full use and enjoyment of their premises, which would not be the case if we reserved either the right or the means of entry. But, as a matter of fact, I have a duplicate key of Mr. Gillum's chambers. I offered it to him, but he said that he had no use for a second key, and he thought that it might be as well for me to keep it in case he might lose his or in the event of some emergency arising. But why do you ask?"

"Well," I said a little diffidently, "it occurred to me that it might be as well, if you had a key, just to look in and see that all is as it should be."

Mr. Weech shook his head decidedly. "No, sir," said he, "I have no right to enter the chambers of any of our tenants without his express permission and authority."

I realised Mr. Weech's point of view and fully agreed as to its propriety. But, having ascertained that a key was available, I made up my mind quite definitely that those chambers had got to be entered.

"That is true enough in ordinary circumstances," said I. "But the circumstances are not ordinary. You must see that something unusual has happened, and I may say that Mr. Benson and I are extremely uneasy. Supposing Mr. Gillum should have been taken ill or had some sort of accident."

Mr. Weech was visibly impressed though he made no reply, and-I proceeded to press my advantage.

"What would people say if it should become known that he had been left in his chambers without help simply because of a mere scruple of official etiquette?"

"Yes," Mr. Weech admitted, "there is something in that. It would be very awkward for him, shut up there, solus cum soli, if he was seriously ill. But we don't know that he is."

"We don't," I agreed, "but we can easily find out. Come, now, Mr. Weech, don't stand on mere pedantic ceremony. Do the reasonable thing. Mr. Gillum may be, at this moment, lying in there, helpless, waiting for someone to succour him. We ought to go and see whether he is or not. And I am not suggesting anything irregular. Mr. Benson is his cousin and I am a responsible friend. I am only asking you to do what he would have expected you to do. You say that he left the key in your custody in case any emergency should arise. Well, an emergency has arisen and you have got the key."

"I should hardly call it an emergency," Mr. Weech objected, "but still I don't want to be obstinate. You have shown cause why a visit of inspection might reasonably be made, and, if you and Mr. Benson will take the responsibility, I will get the key and go round with you to the chambers. Then you will be able to see for yourselves whether there is or is not any foundation for your anxieties."

With this he went back into the lodge and presently returned carrying on his finger a couple of keys on a string loop to which was attached a wooden label.

Together we passed up the outer passage, across the small courtyard, through the covered way (not to call it a tunnel) on which the door of the Hall opened, and, crossing the inner courtyard, approached Gillum's entry. Our previous visit with its very audible accompaniments had evidently not passed unnoticed, for, as we walked into the entry, the door of the typewriting office opened slightly and a face appertaining to an elderly woman appeared, surveying us with an interest that was not entirely benevolent.

On arriving at the landing, Mr. Weech transferred his umbrella from his right hand to the left, the better to manipulate the keys, the larger of which he inserted into the lock. It was not a very good fit, but, after a few tentative turns, he succeeded in shooting back the bolt; having done which, he drew the door outwards a couple of inches and sniffed audibly. Taking the key out of the door, he drew the latter wide open and was preparing to insert the key into the lock of the inner door when he observed that the latter was slightly ajar; whereupon he pushed it open and stepped into the room.

But he took only one two steps, and then, as he passed the open door, he stopped short, and ejaculating, "God save us!" hastily backed out. And, at the same moment, I became aware of a strange, musty, cadaverous odour.

With all my forebodings intensified and a feeling of extreme distaste, I nevertheless ventured to step in at the open door to see what it was that had given such a shock to Mr. Weech. But my stay was little longer than his, though in that instant my eyes took in a tableau that rises vividly before me as I write. As I cleared the edge of the door, I came into view of a couch drawn up by the Window, whereon reclined a pyjama-clad figure whose aspect confirmed the worst of my fears.

It was a horrible spectacle, that motionless figure, half strange and half familiar, with its discoloured face and the open mouth from which the two gold teeth seemed to stare out as they gleamed in the bright afternoon sunlight. I stood, as I have said, gazing at it for but a few seconds and then, sick with the horror of the sight and the the effluvium that filled the room, I hurried out an joined Mr. Weech, who stood at the head of the stairs holding a handkerchief to his nose.

As I came out, Benson looked at me, but he asked no question. I suppose he guessed what we had seen, but his nerves were evidently stronger than ours for he strode into the room without hesitation, and pushing the door right back, opened the view into the room so far that I could see him stooping over that dreadful figure, regardless of the foul atmosphere and the obscene flies that buzzed around, He made a long and critical examination of the corpse and then turned to a small table that was placed beside the couch. This, I now noticed, bore a decanter, apparently containing whisky, a siphon, a tumbler, and a small corked bottle; and each of these objects Benson scrutinised minutely.

At length he came out, shutting the inner door after him, and looking very grim and solemn. Evidently he was deeply moved, but, though he was a shade pale, he was quite calm and self-possessed, in striking contrast to Weech and me, whose nerves were quite unstrung by the horrid experience. He closed the outer door, and, taking the key out of the lock, silently handed it to Mr. Weech.

"Well," he said, "what is to be done now?"

I suppose," said Weech, "I had better communicate with the police. They have a telephone in the office below and I dare say they will let me use it."

"Yes," Benson agreed, "that will be the best thing to do; and you had better ask the police how soon they can send someone up. We shall have to wait here and see them, as they will want some particulars and we may as well get the business over at once."

We went down to the ground floor and once more were the objects of interested scrutiny from the half-opened door. Then Mr. Weech made his request ,and was admitted forthwith while Benson and I went out into the quadrangle to wait for him. Presently he came out and joined us, with the information that an officer was being sent up and would be at the Inn in the course of a few minutes. Then he invited us to come to the lodge to await the officer's arrival; an offer which Benson promptly declined, explaining that he wanted to talk things over with me before the officer should arrive. Accordingly, Mr. Weech excused himself and went off in the direction of the lodge, and Benson and I turned into the quiet alley between a row of ancient houses and the garden railings.

"This is a very astounding affair, Mortimer," said Benson, when Mr. Weech was out of earshot. "Doesn't it seem so to you?"

I hesitated for a moment, but as there was no reason for secrecy, and as I should certainly have to make a statement to the police, or at the inquest, I replied: "It is a very dreadful business, but I can't say that I am so greatly surprised."

"Aren't you?" he exclaimed. "Now, I should have said that Jack Gillum was the very last person .I should have expected to take his life. Why do you say that you are not surprised?"

"Well," I replied, "I have known a good deal about his way of living and the muddle that he has got his affairs into; and, of course, I have certain special knowledge which it would not be permissible for me to refer to."

"If you mean knowledge that you have obtained in your capacity as an employee of his bank," said Benson, "there is nothing in it. He was your customer and you had to keep his affairs secret. But now that he is dead, his executor is your customer."

"He made a will, then?" said I, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, by special arrangement. Mr. Penfield is his executor and I am the sole beneficiary under the will. So I am, in effect, your customer and am entitled to know how his affairs stand."

I was not at all satisfied that this view was technically correct. But, as it was certain that poor Gillum's affairs would have to be more or less completely disclosed at the inquest, I felt it to be unreasonable to withhold the information from one who was so clearly entitled to know all the facts. Accordingly I replied: "I am not sure that you are right, but I am prepared to waive the strict letter of the law if you will promise to regard as absolutely confidential anything that I may tell you about Gillum's financial position."

"Certainly I will," said he. "But surely his financial position was perfectly satisfactory?"

"On the contrary," said I, "it was profoundly unsatisfactory; in fact, I don't think I am exaggerating if I say that he was absolutely penniless."

Benson stopped and gazed at me with a frown of astonishment. "Penniless!" he exclaimed. "But he should have been a rich man, comparatively speaking. When he came to England, he had his very substantial savings, which I know he sent to Mr. Penfield to be deposited in a bank—your bank, I suppose."

"Yes," said I. "Mr. Penfield opened the account in Gillum's name with a deposit of three thousand pounds."

"Very well. Then he had payments from me from time to time, including the eleven hundred pounds that I sent him a little over three months ago. And he must have got something from the business, to say nothing of the purchase price of his partnership, whatever that may have been. But, of course, you know all about that."

"Yes," said I. "All those big cheques have been paid in, and the amounts have gone out nearly as fast as they have come in, and the position now is that there is not only no balance, but the account is a pound or two overdrawn."

Benson continued to stare at me with the utmost amazement. "But," he exclaimed, "where the devil has the money gone? Do you suppose he has been playing the fool on the Stock Exchange?"

"I don't," I replied. "I know where the bulk of the money has gone. It has been frittered away in gambling; some of it on the turf and a good deal on cards and roulette and various other fooleries. I have sometimes suspected that there might be a blackmailer in the background, but I have no knowledge to that effect. I only know that the bulk of the money was drawn out in cash and that he usually asked to have his 'self' cheques cashed in notes of small denomination—preferably in Treasury notes. It looked as if he wanted to secure himself against the possibility of the notes being traced."

Benson reflected on this statement in silence for a few moments, still looking at me with an expression of angry incredulity. At length he rejoined: "We shall have to go into this in more detail later on. Obviously, as you are in possession of the actual facts, what you tell me must be true. But yet I find it beyond belief. The whole affair, including this suicide—for that is evidently what it is—is so utterly opposed to all that I know of Jack Gillum—and I have known him since he was a boy—that I can make nothing of it."

"Then," I suggested, "he was not always a gambler?"

"No," Benson replied, though without much emphasis. "No, I wouldn't call him a gambler. He liked a game of cards, and he liked to play rather higher than I cared about, and he had a way of betting in a small way and making wagers. But his play was never on a great scale, and his ordinary management of his financial affairs was perfectly reasonable. The amount that he had saved speaks for itself, and you can be sure that I should not have been willing to enter into the arrangements that existed between us if he had been a spendthrift and a wild gambler."

Benson's account of his cousin did not very greatly surprise me. It had been obvious to me that his habits could not always have been such as those that were known to me, or he would never have had any money at all. The gambling habit must have grown on him by frequent indulgence. So it appeared to me, and I answered to that effect.

"My acquaintance with your cousin," said I, "extends only to a short time, only about a year, or rather less. And when I first met him these new habits were already formed, so I never knew him otherwise. But even so, it has been a matter of surprise to me that a man, in other respects so sensible and capable, should have behaved in this idiotic manner. But what you have just told me makes it even more surprising. We can only suppose that the new surroundings, when he came to live in London, must have exerted some peculiar influence over him. And it may be that he fell into the society of people who had a bad effect on him. I happen to know that he was acquainted with some pretty shady characters, though how he came to know them I have no idea."

"There may be something in what you say," said Benson, "in fact, there must be. But the gambling alone doesn't seem to be a satisfactory explanation. I am inclined to suspect that you are right in your suggestion of a possible blackmailer. The way in which the money was drawn out in untraceable notes seems to support that view very strongly. There is no reason why a simple, straightforward gambler should take precautions against having his payments traced. However, we shall have to adjourn this discussion. That gentleman looks like the police officer."

As he spoke, Mr. Weech appeared emerging from the covered way in company with a tall, brisk-looking man in civilian clothes who carried a largish attaché case. The two men approached us and Mr. Weech effected a concise introduction.

"There is no need for you two gentlemen to come up with me," said the officer; "in fact it would be better for me to go alone so that I can make my observations undisturbed. But I will ask you to be good enough to wait here until I have seen what there is to see. I shall want to take a few particulars for the purposes of the inquest."

With this he departed under Mr. Weech's guidance in the direction of Gillum's entry, the approach of the pair closely observed from the window of the type writing office. When they had gone, I rather expected Benson to resume our conversation. But apparently what had been said already gave him sufficient food for thought, for he paced up and down the alley at my side uttering no word and evidently deep in his own reflections, which, to judge by his stern, gloomy expression, were of a highly disagreeable kind.

The officer's observations took rather longer than I had expected. At each turn of our walk when we came to the end of the alley and in view of Gillum's chambers, I could see Mr. Weech at the open landing window, gazing out discontentedly across the quadrangle, and at the office window below watchful heads appeared from time to time over the wire blind. But the officer remained hidden from our sight.

At length, at about the twentieth turn, as we came to the corner of the alley, I observed that Mr. Weech had disappeared from his post at the window, and a moment later he came into view in the obscurity of the staircase and then emerged into the open, followed closely by the officer, whereupon Benson and I walked forward to meet them.

"Well, gentlemen," said the officer, "it seems quite a straightforward case from my point of view, but I may as well have a few particulars for the guidance of the coroner's officer in preparing the details of the inquest. I will begin by taking your names and addresses and your relations with deceased."

He looked from one of us to the other, and Benson, as an actual relative, opened the proceedings by giving his name and address and stating his relationship.

"Ah!" said the officer, "you are deceased's cousin. Then you will be the proper person to identify the body. Not that it is of any importance as there is no question as to who he is. But you have seen the body. Can you identify it positively?"

"Yes," replied Benson. "It is the body of my cousin, John Gillum."

"Exactly," said the officer. "Now, is there anything that you can tell us that would throw any light on the suicide—assuming it to be a suicide?"

"No," replied Benson. "I can't account for it at all. But I haven't seen deceased for about two years, so I haven't any very recent information about him. This gentleman, Mr. Mortimer, knows a good deal more about his affairs than I do."

Thereupon the officer turned to me and asked me to give him any information that might guide him as to the kind of evidence that would be required at the inquest and the names of any witnesses who might have to be called. Accordingly I told him who I was but pointed out that, as an employee of deceased's bank, I was not at liberty to give any information as to his financial affairs.

"No," he agreed, "not in the ordinary way. But the customer's death releases the bank from its obligations of secrecy. However, I won't press you. Any information that the bank may be able to supply will have to be given at the inquest if it is relevant. Should you say that it would be relevant? I mean in relation to the motive for the suicide—assuming it to be a suicide?"

"Yes," I replied, "I think I may say that much. But perhaps you had better see the manager. He knows the ropes better than I do."

"Or Mr. Penfield," Benson suggested. "He is Gillum's executor and was his man of business and as he is a lawyer he will know exactly what information he ought to give."

The officer agreed to this and took down the addresses of the manager and Mr. Penfield. "And that," said he, "is all for the present. Now I must see about getting the body removed to the mortuary. I had better keep the keys until the inquest is over as we don't want the rooms disturbed, and there may be some letters or papers which ought to be examined either by me or by Mr. Penfield. I will hear what he has to say about that. So I will wish you gentlemen good afternoon."

With this he bustled away and Benson and Weech and I walked down to the lodge where, declining an invitation to go in and rest a few minutes, Benson and I left the porter and made our way out into Fleet Street. My companion was still silent and gloomy, uttering scarcely a word as we walked down towards Ludgate Circus. Only just before we parted at the corner did he make any observation on the tragedy.

Then, in a tone of almost passionate grief; he exclaimed: "It is a miserable business, and what makes it more awful to me is the feeling that I have been, in a manner, the cause of the disaster. It looks very much as if poor Gillum had funked meeting me."

I could not but admit that the same idea had occurred to me. It would certainly have been a very awkward meeting, involving some exceedingly uncomfortable explanations.

"But he needn't have funked it," said Benson. "Of course, I should have been pretty sick. But I shouldn't have reproached him and I should not have let him down. He could have come back with me and helped me to run the farm and got back to his natural way of life. However, it is no use thinking now of what might have been. Good-bye, Mortimer. You know where to find me if you should want me."

He shook my hand heartily and turned away down Farringdon Street, and, as it was now too late to go back to the bank, I made my way towards my own place of abode.

Chapter 7 THE CORONER'S INQUEST

IF HE FACTS WHICH WERE disclosed by the evidence of witnesses at the inquest on the body of John Gillum were mostly new to me only to the extent that they were facts, for most of them had already existed in my mind in the form of suspicions. Nevertheless, the grim proceedings had for me the melancholy interest that now, when all the contributory circumstances of the final catastrophe were assembled, I was able to realise the enormity of that catastrophe. It was really beyond belief. That a man who had seemed to have been the especial favourite of fortune should have mismanaged his affairs so unutterably as to bring himself to actual destitution and to a pauper suicide's grave, appeared, and was, an incredible instance of human folly and perversity. But I need not moralise on the tragedy, the facts deposed to in evidence tell their own tale.

The first witness was Mr. Weech, who gave a slightly verbose but very impressive description of the discovery. When he had finished and in answer to a question, had stated the date on which he had last seen deceased alive, he was dismissed and his place taken by Arthur Benson.

"You were present with Mr. Weech when the body was discovered," said the coroner. "Were you able to identify the body?"

"Yes," was the reply, "it was the body of my cousin, John Gillum."

"The identity of the body is not in question," said the coroner, "but may we take it that you are certain that it was the body of your cousin?"

"I am quite certain," replied Benson. "The circumstances were so remarkable that I had at first some doubt whether it could really be John Gillum, so I examined it closely and carefully. There is no doubt whatever that it was John Gillum's body."

"Naturally," said the coroner, "you were greatly shocked at what had happened, but were you surprised?

"I was astounded," replied Benson. "John Gillum was the last man in the world whom I should have expected to have committed suicide. But I had not seen him for nearly two years, when he was leaving Australia to come to England. Up to that time he had been working on a sheep farm and had seemed to be a happy, capable, well-balanced man. But I learn that since he came to this country his habits and even his character seem to have undergone a radical change. Of that, of course, I know nothing."

Here the coroner put one or two questions concerning Gillum's antecedents, to which Benson answered in much the same terms as those in which he had replied to mine, as recorded in the last chapter. And these details of Gillum's pecuniary position formed the remainder of his evidence.

The next witness was Detective-Sergeant Edmund Waters, who stepped up to the place appointed for witnesses and gave his evidence with professional readiness and precision.

"On Wednesday the eighteenth of July, I was in formed that a telephone message had been received reporting the finding of the dead body of a man in a room at 64, Clifford's Inn. I proceeded there forthwith, going first to the porter's lodge where I met Mr. Weech, who had sent the message, Mr. Benson and Mr. Mortimer. Mr. Weech conducted me to the room, which was in a set of chambers on the first floor, and unlocked the door to admit me.

"On entering the room, I saw the dead body of a man lying on a couch close to a window. From the appearance of the body and a very foul odour which pervaded the air of the room, I judged that the man had been dead several days. I inspected the body without disturbing it but could see no injuries or any sign of violence or any indication of a struggle. The man was lying on the couch in an easy posture, as if he had fallen asleep there and nothing in the room appeared to be disturbed. By the side of the couch was a small table on which was a decanter containing whisky, a siphon of soda-water, a tumbler, and a small bottle labelled 'Tablets of morphine hydrochloride; gr. 1/2.' and containing a number of white tablets. The description on the label was written with a pen in block capital letters.

"I took possession of the bottle and then I examined the tumbler. There were quite a large number of finger-prints on it and most of them were perfectly distinct. There were also finger-prints on the bottle, but these were not so distinct and I had to develop some of them up, especially those on the label, before I could be sure of the pattern. As I had my finger print apparatus with me, I proceeded very carefully to take a set of the finger-prints of the body to compare with those on the tumbler and the bottle. When I made the comparison, it became perfectly clear that all the prints on both vessels were made by deceased. Those on the tumbler were prints of the fingers of deceased's right hand and those on the bottle were principally prints of the left hand with one or two of the right."

"You are sure," said the coroner, "that there were no other finger-prints?"

"Quite sure," replied the sergeant. "The prints were all recognisable and I compared each one separately with the prints that I had taken from the body."

"That is very important," said the coroner, "and it seems quite conclusive. Did you make any examination of the room?"

"Not a minute examination. I just looked round to see if there were any signs of anything unusual, but there were not. Everything looked perfectly normal."

"Have you made any further investigation since then?"

"Yes. I went to the chambers with Mr. Bateman, who was acting for the executors, to see if there were any papers or documents that might throw any light on the affair. We found the keys in the pockets of deceased's clothes and with them we opened the drawers of the writing-table. In one of the drawers we found several letters in their envelopes tied up in a bundle. We read these letters and we both formed the opinion that they were blackmailer's letters. Mr. Bateman took possession of them and I believe he has them still."

"Then," said the coroner, "as Mr. Bateman is here and will be giving evidence, we need not go into the question of the letters now. Is there anything else that you have to tell us?"

"No," replied the sergeant, "excepting that I notified the coroner— yourself—that I had the bottle of tablets and, in accordance with instructions, handed it to Dr. Sidney."

"Then," said the coroner, "we need not trouble you further unless any member of the jury wishes to ask any questions. No questions? Then we had better next take the medical evidence."

Accordingly, the medical witness, Dr. Thomas Winsford, was called and, having given his name and qualifications, deposed, in answer to the coroner's question: "I have made a careful examination of the body of deceased. It is that of a man about forty years of age, well-developed and muscular and free from any signs of disease. I examined it in relation to the questions of the date of death and its cause. With regard to the first, there was a slight difficulty owing to the condition of the body, which was definitely in a state of incipient putrefaction. But, taking into account the temperature of the room in which it had been lying, I should say that deceased had been dead from six to eight days."

"You speak of the heat of the room. Had you any personal knowledge of the conditions in that room?"

"Yes. I obtained the key of the chambers from Sergeant Waters and went there in the afternoon. The sun was shining in at the window and the room was very hot. I took the temperature with a thermometer and found it to be eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit. That would account for the rather advanced state of putrefaction in the time that I have mentioned, and I am inclined to the opinion that deceased had not been dead more than six or seven days."

"Yes," the coroner remarked, "that seems to agree with what Mr. Weech has told us. He saw deceased alive ten days before the discovery of the body. And what do you say as to the cause of death?"

"From the inspection of the body, it was difficult to assign any cause of death. There were no injuries or external marks of any kind or any abnormal appearances whatever. But I had been informed of the finding of the bottle of morphine tablets and I examined the body for signs of morphine poisoning."

"And did you find any such traces?"

"Morphine does not ordinarily leave very pronounced traces, and the condition of the body was not favourable for discovering the more minute signs. But I found a somewhat contracted state of the pupils, and this, with the absence of any other signs indicating death from any other cause, confirmed the suggestion that death was due to poisoning with morphine. But I can only say that all the appearances were consistent with morphine poisoning and that I could not discover any other cause of death."

"Did you take any measure, to settle this question?"

"Yes. I removed from the body certain of the internal organs and put them in chemically clean jars which I closed and sealed and affixed to each a label on which I wrote the particulars and the date, and signed my name. These jars, in accordance with instructions, I handed personally to Dr. Walter Sidney for analysis."

This concluded the doctor's evidence. He was followed by Dr. Walter Sidney, who deposed that he was a pathologist and an analytical chemist, and that he had received from the preceding witness certain jars containing various organs from a human body which he was informed had been removed from the body of deceased. He had also received from Sergeant Waters a bottle containing a number of white tablets and labelled with a written label: "Morphine hydrochloride, gr. i /2." He had analysed four of the tablets and found that they were composed of morphine hydrochloride and that each tablet contained half a grain of the drug. He had also made a chemical examination of the organs from the jars and had obtained from them a little over two and a quarter grains of morphine. He estimated the amount of morphine present in the whole body at, at least, four grains, but probably more.

"What do you consider a poisonous dose of morphine?" the coroner asked.

"It varies considerably in different persons," the witness replied. "Half a grain has been known to cause death, but that is very unusual. One grain would be very likely to cause death in a person who was not accustomed to the drug, and two grains would ordinarily be a lethal dose."

"Then four grains is definitely a lethal dose?"

"Yes. It would almost certainly cause death in a person who was not in the habit of taking the drug."

"Did your examination enable you to form any opinion as to whether deceased had been in the habit of taking morphine?"

"I should not like to give a very definite opinion. All the organs, including the liver, were quite healthy; which would hardly have been the case if deceased had been in the habit of dosing himself with morphine. I can only say that I found no signs that suggested the habitual taking of the drug. And Dr. Winsford's evidence, in which he stated that deceased appeared to be a strong, healthy man, is quite inconsistent with the idea that deceased was a morphine addict."

"As a result of your examination, can you make any suggestion as to the cause of death?"

"Inasmuch as a lethal dose of morphine was found in the body, and as no other cause of death was discoverable, I should say that there is no doubt that deceased died from poisoning by morphine."

"Thank you," said the coroner; "that is what we want to know; and I think that, if you have nothing more to tell us, we need not detain you any longer."

He glanced enquiringly at the jury, and, as neither the jury nor the witness volunteered any remark, the latter withdrew to his seat.

The next witness was Mr. Alfred Bateman, a gentle man of typically legal aspect whose acquaintance I had already made. Having been sworn, he deposed that he was the managing clerk of Mr. Penfield, a solicitor and executor of the will of deceased, for whom he also acted as man of business.

"Are you in possession of any facts that explain, or have any bearing on, the death of deceased?" the coroner asked.

"I am in possession of certain facts which seem to me to be relevant to the subject of this inquiry," the witness replied. "In the first place, deceased had, in less than two years, got through a fortune, and was, at the time of his death, so far as I can ascertain, absolutely penniless and in debt. In the second place, he was, at the time of his death, being harassed by blackmailers."

"Yes," said the coroner, "those facts certainly seem to be relevant to the subject of this inquiry. Perhaps you might give us a few particulars without going into unnecessary detail."

"As to the financial question," said Bateman, "the facts, in outline, are these: Nearly two years ago—on the sixteenth of April, 1928, to be exact—deceased wrote to Mr. Penfield stating that he was coming to England to live and remitting a sum of three thousand pounds which he asked Mr. Penfield to deposit in a suitable bank in his, deceased's, name, five hundred to be placed to the current account and the remainder on deposit. I dealt with this matter myself, under Mr. Penfield's instructions, and placed the money in Perkins's Bank. Three months after the receipt of this letter, that is, on the eighteenth of September, deceased called at our office to announce his arrival. There were certain business transactions connected with the purchase of a partnership which I think I need not describe in detail as they seem to have no bearing on recent events. When these were concluded, and deceased had deposited his will with Mr. Penfield, I accompanied him to the bank and introduced him to the manager. Thereafter our contact with him practically ceased. He came to the office once or twice afterwards, and then, as we had finished with his affairs and he had kept the partnership deed in his own possession, we lost sight of him; and, excepting that his address in Clifford's Inn was known to us—he having given Mr. Penfield as a reference when he applied for the chambers—we knew nothing of what he was doing or how he lived.

"He next came into view, so to speak, when his cousin, Mr. Benson, called at our office to ask if we could give him any information as to where he could find deceased. That was on the seventeenth of this month. As we knew nothing, we referred him to deceased's bank, and, as he has deposed, he went there. On the evening of the eighteenth, Mr. Benson called at the office and informed me—as Mr. Penfield had already left—of the discovery of the body in the chambers. He also informed me that the keys of the chambers were in the possession of Sergeant Waters. Thereupon, as I knew that Mr. Penfield was the executor of deceased's will, I thought it best to see the sergeant without delay and accordingly went forthwith to the police station where I was fortunate enough to find the sergeant. He suggested that we had better go to the chambers and see if there were any letters or papers which might throw any light on the motives for the assumed suicide.

I agreed that it was desirable and we accordingly went together to the chambers and made the search. In a drawer in the writing-table we found a considerable number of letters and other documents, all neatly tied into bundles and docketed. There was one bundle tied with red tape and labelled 'Horse-leech' and this we examined first. It consisted of eleven letters, each enclosed in its envelope. They were all in a similar, and apparently disguised, handwriting, none of them bore any signature or contained any reference to any person by name, and none of them was dated, though the date could be inferred from the postmark on the envelope.

"On reading them, we came to the conclusion that they were undoubtedly from a blackmailer. Ten of them were quite short and were simply reminders that a payment was due. The other one, which appeared to be the first of the series, plainly demanded money with menaces. I produce the letters for your inspection."

Here the witness drew from his pocket a bundle of letters tied together with red tape and laid them on the table before the coroner.

"I think," said the latter, "that it would be better for you to read them to us, or, at least, the first letter and one of the others. The jury can inspect them afterwards if they wish to."

Accordingly, Mr. Bateman untied the bundle, and, taking the two outside letters, opened one of them and read its contents aloud: "'With reference to our little friendly talk last night, as you did not seem able to make up your mind, I will see if I can help you. To put the matter in a nutshell, I want £500 from you as a first instalment. The others we can arrange later, but I must have this at once; and I warn you that I am not going to stand any nonsense. If this is not handed over by Sunday night at the latest, the consequences which I mentioned to you will follow without further notice.

"'The money is to be paid in pound notes (not new ones) and the parcel is to be handed personally either to me or to the party whom you know and whose name I mentioned to you.

"'This is the final offer and I advise you to take it. You will be sorry if you don't.'"

"I agree with you," said the coroner, "as to the character of that letter. It is a typical blackmailer's letter. What is the date on the envelope?"

"The postmark is dated the sixteenth of September, 1929. Shall I read the last letter?"

"If you please," the coroner replied, whereupon the witness drew the other letter from its envelope, and, glancing at the latter, said: "This is dated by the post-mark the fourth of this present month of July and the contents are as follows: 'In case you should forget to look at your calendar, as you did last time, I am sending you this little reminder. And don't forget that the notes must be old ones which have seen some service. There were several brand new notes in the last instalment which had to be kept for use on the turf. Don't let that happen again.'"

As he finished reading, Bateman laid the two letters on the table and the coroner, after glancing through them, passed them to the foreman of the jury.

"Beyond these blackmailing letters," said he, addressing the witness, "did you find anything that might throw light on what has happened?"

"Not in the way of letters," Bateman replied. "All the others were just normal business correspondence and letters from his cousin, Mr. Benson, sent from Australia. But we found also in that drawer the pass-book from deceased's bank, and the entries in that were very significant. We began by looking up the entries corresponding to the dates of the blackmailing letters, and, from what we could see, it appeared that deceased had been paying out £500 every quarter, excepting the last. On the date corresponding to the last letter the amount drawn out was only £200. But when we looked through the entries other than those corresponding to the dates of the blackmailing letters, it was clear that a large number of sums of money had been drawn out in the form of cash, for what purpose we were, of course, unable to guess."

"You found no evidence of any other blackmailers?" the coroner asked.

"No evidence," Bateman replied, "but it looked highly suspicious. The 'self' cheques appeared at very frequent intervals and some of them were for considerable amounts. However, we could not make very much of the pass-book, but, from what we could see, it looked as if deceased had spent his money as fast as he received it; and the cheques that were entered to his credit were for quite large amounts.

"But it was on the following day, the nineteenth, that I learned the full enormity of the affair. On that day I accompanied Mr. Penfield to the bank, where we had an interview with the manager. He presented us with a statement of his transactions with deceased and showed us how the account stood. I need not trouble you with details, but the position amounted to this; that deceased had drawn out every penny that he possessed and was actually in debt to the bank, though to only a small amount."

"You say that deceased had received considerable sums of money. We don't want details, but, roughly speaking, about how much had he spent and how long had he been in spending it?"

"The total amount that he had held to his credit, including the original deposit, was just over £13,000. And he had got through the whole of this between the end of September, 1928, and the middle of this present month; a period of one year and ten months."

"Did you learn at the bank whether he appeared to have been operating on the Stock Exchange?"

"I think we may definitely infer that he had not. Settlements on the Stock Exchange are made by cheque, and there were no records of any cheques payable to stockbrokers. The comparatively few cheques that appeared in the ledger were mostly small in amount and appeared to have been payable to tradesmen or other persons concerned with the ordinary, normal expenditure. What had exhausted the account was the large number of cheques payable to himself in cash."

"Well," said the coroner, addressing the jury, "there is no object in our enquiring further into the details of this astonishing instance of reckless prodigality. We have the material fact that in less than two years this unfortunate man flung away what most of us would have regarded as a fortune. We also know that, at the time of his death, he was penniless and in debt, and that he was the victim of a particularly rapacious set of blackmailers. I think Mr. Bateman has given us some most illuminating information and that we might now thank him for the clear and lucid way in which he has given his evidence and not detain him any longer. Unless any member of the jury wishes for any further information."

One member of the jury, apparently thrilled by the vast sums that had been mentioned, would have sought further details, but was politely suppressed by the coroner; whereupon Bateman was released and retired to his seat. There was a short interval during which the coroner glanced through the depositions, and then, as I had expected, my name was called.

"You have heard Mr. Bateman's evidence," said the coroner, when the preliminaries had been disposed of. "As a member of the staff of the bank, you will probably consider yourself prohibited from giving any particulars of deceased's financial affairs. But can you tell us if you endorse what the last witness has stated?

"I endorse it completely," I replied. "I was present with the manager when the particulars were given to him. And I may say that I am fully authorised by the executor—in whom the account is now vested—and the manager, to give any information that may be required as to our late customer's dealings with the bank."

"Then," said the coroner, " as you, in your capacity of cashier, knew exactly what monies deceased received and what he drew out, and in what form, perhaps you can tell us what opinions you held as to his very unusual manner of conducting his affairs. Did you ever suspect that he was being blackmailed?"

"I did."

"What circumstances in particular led you to form that suspicion?

"In the first place, there were the very large sums which he drew out in cash. It is very unusual for customers to draw out in cash more than quite modest amounts and these large drafts in cash were, in themselves, rather suggestive of some slightly irregular transactions. But what specially tended to arouse my suspicions was the fact that deceased usually asked expressly for old notes; notes that had been in circulation and were more or less soiled."

"What did you infer from that?"

"As the only possible advantage of a note that has been used is that it cannot be traced, I inferred that the notes were to be used for making payments of a secret, and possibly unlawful, character."

"Is it unusual for customers to ask for used notes?"

"It is rather unusual, though some customers prefer the used notes because they are less liable to stick together than the new. But usually, customers express a marked preference for new, clean notes."

"But the new notes are more easy to trace?"

"They are quite easy to trace. Usually, when a customer presents a bearer cheque for a considerable amount, he is paid in notes which have been newly issued and supplied direct to the bank. Such an issue is in the form of a series of notes of which the numbers are consecutive, and the numbers of the series are entered, not only in our own books but in the books of the bank of issue. Moreover, the numbers of the notes paid to the customer are also recorded; so that, if any question arises, it is possible to say with certainty that a particular note was paid to a particular person on a known date."

"You inferred, then, that these notes were being used to make payments of a questionable kind? What led you to suspect blackmail in particular?"

"It is common knowledge that blackmailers always refuse cheques and insist on being paid in cash; and their objection to cheques would equally apply to a series of newly issued notes. The only other kind of persons known to me who demand payment in untraceable cash are either thieves or receivers of stolen goods. But in the case of deceased, blackmailers were more probable than thieves or receivers. And there was another circumstance that strongly suggested a blackmailer. In addition to the smaller drafts which were presented at irregular intervals, there were certain larger drafts which were presented periodically and pretty regularly at intervals of three months. This suggested that someone was being paid a quarterly allowance; and, having regard to the mode of payment, I felt very little doubt that that person was a blackmailer."

"You speak of a blackmailer. It has been suggested that there may have been more than one. What do you say to that?"

"I can only say that I think it highly probable. I have always, from the first, suspected a blackmailer in the background, simply by reason of the large cash withdrawals. But I had nothing more definite than that to go on until the large periodical drafts began last September. If there were any other blackmailers they must have been paid at irregular intervals, and, I should say, in smaller amounts. But it is possible that the irregular cash drafts merely represented what deceased spent on gambling. I know that his expenditure on betting and play was very large."

"But would he have needed used notes for that purpose? Gambling is a foolish pursuit, but it is not usually unlawful."

"No; but it may be associated with other acts which are unlawful. This was certainly the case in the one instance in which I accompanied him to one of his gambling resorts. It was a most disreputable place and the persons present seemed to me to be of the shadiest type. And drink was being sold freely on unlicensed premises and during prohibited hours. The place might have been, at any moment, raided by the police, and, in that case, deceased would not have wished that any evidence should exist that he had been associated with it, if he had happened not to be there at the time of the raid."

"Is it actually known to you that deceased gambled to a really serious extent?"

"Yes. I was present on two occasions; the one that I have mentioned and another at a horse-race. On the first occasion he played very little as he was merely showing me the place and the people. But at the race he plunged rather heavily and lost—as he informed me—about a hundred pounds. But he was quite unconcerned about it. He seemed to consider the dropping of a hundred pounds as quite a negligible loss."

"Did he know that you were aware of the extent to which he gambled?"

"Oh, yes. He made no secret of it. I spoke to him very seriously on several occasions and pointed out to him how his capital was wasting. But he was incorrigible. He took my lectures quite amiably, but he would promise no reform. He was quite confident that he would get all his losses back presently."

The coroner reflected for a few moments on this statement. Then, in a grave and emphatic tone, he said: "As you were a friend of deceased's and the only person who appears to know much of his affairs, I am going to ask you two questions. The first is: Have you any inkling as to the identity of the person who was blackmailing him?"

Now I had expected this question and had carefully considered the reply that I ought to make. I had a very definite suspicion as to who the blackmailer was. But it was only a guess; and a guess is not an inkling in the sense intended. I was prepared to communicate my suspicions to the police, but I had no intention of making guesses in sworn testimony with the certainty of publicity. Accordingly, I replied with strict truth: "I have no knowledge whatsoever. Deceased made no confidences to me, and I never hinted to him what I suspected."

The coroner, whatever he may have thought, accepted this answer without comment and wrote it down. Then he put his second question.

"Had you ever any reason to think it possible that deceased might take his life?"

"Yes," I replied, "I have had that possibility in mind for some time, and, as soon as I heard that he was missing, I suspected what had happened."

"What led you to that belief?"

"It was something that deceased himself had said. On a certain occasion we happened to be speaking of suicide and I remarked that, to me, it seemed that the fact of suicide was in itself evidence of an unsound state of mind. With this he disagreed emphatically. He contended that suicide was a perfectly rational proceeding in appropriate circumstances; and when I asked him what he considered appropriate circumstances, he mentioned as an example, total and irremediable financial ruin. From that time, since his affairs were obviously tending in that direction, I have always had an uneasy expectation that, when the crash came, he would take that course for solving his difficulties."

"You had that expectation," said the coroner, "but was it based on the mere opinion that he had expressed, or on some more definite indication of intention? I mean, did he ever convey to you that he actually contemplated suicide as an act possible to himself?"

"He conveyed to me quite definitely the view that, if he were reduced to abject poverty, life would not be worth living, and that he would take measures to bring it to an end. He seemed to consider that it was the natural and reasonable thing to do."

The coroner pondered this statement for a while. Then he looked towards the jury.

"Are there any further questions that you would like to ask this witness?" he enquired. "It seems to me that he has given us all the material facts."

That was apparently the view of the jury, for no further questions were suggested. Accordingly, when the depositions had been completed, I was released and returned to my seat, and, as there were no other witnesses, the coroner proceeded to sum up briefly but quite adequately.

"You have now heard all the evidence," he began, "and you will have noticed that it all seems to establish a single conclusion. The medical evidence is quite clear. Deceased died from the effects of a large dose of morphine, or morphia, as it is more commonly called. On the question whether the poison was administered by himself or some other person, we have the evidence of the sergeant that the finger-prints on the drinking-vessel and on the poison bottle were those of deceased himself and that there were no signs of the presence of any other person. Then we have the clear evidence of Mr. Mortimer that deceased had contemplated suicide as a means of escape from the consequences of financial ruin; and we have the evidence of both Mr. Bateman and Mr. Mortimer that financial ruin had actually occurred on a scale that almost takes one's breath away. So you see that the drift of the evidence is all in the same direction; and I will leave you to consider it with the feeling that you will have no difficulty in finding your verdict."

Apparently the coroner's feeling was a just one, for the jury, after a very brief consultation, communicated their verdict through the foreman. It was to the effect that deceased died from the effects of a large dose of morphine, administered by himself.

"That," said the coroner, "is a verdict of suicide. What do you say as to the state of deceased's mind 'at the time of the act?"

The decision of the jury, in direct contradiction of poor Gillum's own view, was that he was insane at the time when the act was committed. And when this finding had been recorded the proceedings came to an end.

I lingered after the court had risen to exchange a few words with Benson, to whom I had taken a rather strong liking, and presently we were joined by Mr. Bateman, who apparently wanted to learn how his client had been affected by the incidents of the inquiry.

"A most amazing story," he commented, "the evidence in this case has brought to light. I have never heard anything more astonishing. The finding of the jury as to the state of mind of deceased at the time of the act might fairly be extended to all his other acts. The conduct that the evidence has disclosed is the conduct of a sheer lunatic. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Benson?"

"I do indeed," Benson admitted gloomily.

"And I think," pursued Bateman, "that you will also agree that, however incomprehensible poor Gillum's conduct may seem to a sane man, the fact that he did act in that insane manner has been established beyond any possible doubt. A consistent story has been elicited and established on an undeniable basis of ascertained fact."

He looked a little anxiously, as I thought, at Benson, who reflected a few moments before replying, but, at length, gave a qualified assent to Bateman's proposition.

"As to the facts which were proved in evidence," said he, "they seem to admit of no doubt or denial. But I still have the feeling that there is something behind all this that I don't understand. The whole affair is too abnormal."

"As to its abnormality," said Bateman, "I am entirely with you. But, abnormal as it is, I think we have got to accept it as a sequence of events that actually happened. Surprise is natural enough, but doubt would seem to be unreasonable."

He paused and looked questioningly at Benson, and, as the latter did not reply immediately, he asked: "You are not contemplating any further action in the matter, are you? Any sort of private or unofficial inquiry? I hope not, for I feel that nothing could come of it; nothing, that is to say, but the dredging up of a quantity of unprofitable and unsavoury details. And inquiries of this kind are apt to prove costly out of all proportion to their value."

"It would certainly be proper," Benson replied, "for me to give very respectful consideration to your advice, seeing that your experience is so much greater than mine. But I must confess that I am not satisfied. Still, I will not take any decision without earnest consideration of what you have said. I will think things over for a day or two, and I will let you know whether I decide to accept this mysterious affair at its face value or to see if any sort of unravelment is possible."

"Very well," rejoined Bateman. "We will leave it at that. If, in the end, you decide to open the matter further, we have the material. Mr. Penfield has carried out your instructions. We had, as you may have noticed, our Mr. James—a very skilful shorthand reporter—in court to-day to make a complete verbatim report of everything that was said, in evidence or otherwise. So that we are independent of the newspaper reports and we shall have no need to ask for access to the depositions. But I hope that neither will be required."

With this, Mr. Bateman took his leave and bustled away; and, as Benson appeared more disposed for reflection than conversation, and I had my own business to attend to, I parted from him at the entrance to the building and we went our respective ways.

And here my narrative comes to its natural end. Its purpose was to give an account of my association with John Gillum, and this I have done; and if my story is not without an epilogue, that epilogue will issue from a pen other than mine.

Part 2
THE CASE OF JOHN GILLUM, DECEASED: Narrated by Christopher Jervis, M.D.