The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red-headed Man, by Fergus Hume This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Red-headed Man Author: Fergus Hume Release Date: August 12, 2017 [EBook #55348] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED-HEADED MAN *** Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by the National Library of Australia Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-90469872 (National Library of Australia) THE RED-HEADED MAN BY THE SAME AUTHOR. CLAUDE DUVAL OF '95 A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD Some Press Opinions Athenæm.--"The book is cleverly written and will interest the reader who can forget its impossibilities." Academy.--"The book is a story of modern highway robbery by a lady instead of a gentleman of the road." Scotsman.--"A capital story of mystery, and unravelled with an entertaining thought." Pall Mall Gazette.--"Mr. Fergus Hume has shown his wonted skill in steering his reader plausibly through the pitfalls of a tangled plot in his 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five.' The conception of a mounted and masked highwayman in our own day is daring and original and is worked out with great ingenuity." Daily Graphic.--"Mr. Fergus Hume starts with a good idea in his tale of a modern highwayman and he has crowded a variety of incidents into the pages of his book. The story opens dramatically and with some novelty." Whitehall Review.--"A rattling romance of the road, well written, well conceived and capitally told. The present book is one of absorbing interest and it is impossible to put it aside until the last line is reached." Black and White.--"There is abundant action and a well-sustained mystery in Mr. Fergus Hume's 'Claude Duval of '95." Morning Post.--"Less characteristic than the majority of Mr. Hume's stories this 'Romance of the Road' is one of the most entertaining among them." Gentlewoman.--"Mr. Hume's latest contribution to fiction 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five' is a good honest tale of adventure which you cannot easily put by when you take it up." Westminster Gazette.--"'Claude Duval of '95' is an excellent story." Manchester Guardian.--"A female highwayman is a somewhat daring variety in fiction of which crime and audacity is the chief merit of Mr. Fergus Hume's latest work. Mr. Hume is a clever writer in a very fertile vein." Literary World.--"In 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five' we have a recendesence of highway robbery very skilfully contrived." Weekly Sun.--"The plot is very cleverly worked out. The book is to be heartily commended as one of its author's masterpieces." Literature.--"The story is novel, and is worked out into a present day environment with real dexterity." Yorkshire Post.--"An entertaining romance which should agree with the prevailing mood of the libraries." Observer.--"Mr. Hume's story will rank among the best of its type." DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS, LONDON. THE RED-HEADED MAN BY FERGUS HUME AUTHOR OF "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "Claude Duval of '95," "A Masquerade Mystery," "The Rainbow Feather," etc. London DIGBY, LONG & CO. 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. 1899 CONTENTS CHAP. I. AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME II. THE BLONDE LADY III. MR. TORRY'S THEORY IV. THE DEAD MAN'S NAME V. "DE MORTIUS NIL NISI BONUM" VI. THE SECRETARY VII. EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST VIII. THE ROBBERY IX. CAPTAIN MANUEL X. DONNA MARIA XI. UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE XII. A CHANCE MEETING XIII. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE XIV. THE SECRET SOCIETY XV. A WOMAN SCORNED XVI. THE TURQUOISE RING XVII. MORE MYSTERIES XVIII. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE XIX. ANOTHER PUZZLE XX. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS XXI. DONNA MARIA EXPLAINS XXII. THE LOCKET XXIII. A CONFESSION XXIV. A QUEER MESSAGE XXV. THE MEETING IN HYDE PARK XXVI. CONCLUSION THE RED-HEADED MAN CHAPTER I AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME Frank Darrel was a young man of twenty-five, with a sufficiency of good looks, and a comfortable income of five hundred a year. Also by way of employing his spare time, he was a realistic novelist of a particularly new school, founded on the axiom that fact invariably poaches on the domain of fiction. He neither conceived nor adopted, but set down actual details of the life around him, with so rigid an adherence to the truth that his published works read like police reports re-written in decent English. In a word, he held the mirror up to nature, and presented the reflection, beautiful or ugly, to the criticism of the British public. To preach thoroughly his gospel of art, as he conceived it, Darrel lived in London, that microcosm of life in all its phases, good, bad, and indifferent. Usually he worked in the morning, slept in the afternoon, amused himself in the evening, and devoted the night from twelve to five to exploring the deeps of the metropolitan ocean. In a disguise of decent poverty more threadbare than ragged, this enthusiast would exploit the dark corners of the Strand, penetrate into Whitechapel slums, and explore the least-known recesses of the City. On occasion he would view the West End and its civilised vices by gaslight, make expeditions into suburbs of known respectability, and, when weary of observing middle class virtue, would haunt less reputable districts in search of character and adventure. All his gleanings were then transmuted into vigorous prose, and figured, under picturesque titles, as novels of fact improved into fiction. This method of shifting the commonplace into romance was adopted by one Honoré de Balzac, with a result known to all the intellectual world. Darrel, with less genius than persevering observation, was a disciple of that great man. One evening late in the summer of last year, Darrel, disguised as a respectable mechanic, found himself observing humanity within the narrow limits of Drury-lane. The hour of midnight had just boomed in twelve strokes from the towers of near churches, and the ragged, hoarse-voiced crowd was beginning to thin into scattered groups. Vendors of various wares had extinguished their flaring lights, and had wheeled home their barrows. Playgoers, chattering about their evening's pleasure, were disappearing into side streets; shops were being closed; hotel-keepers were driving forth late customers more or less intoxicated; and the whole machinery of the quarter's civilisation was running down rapidly, to stop altogether somewhere about the small hours of the morning. Frank, with a short pipe in his mouth, and a keen eye in his head, stood observingly at a corner, and took note of this slackening. It was at this moment that his attention was attracted to a red-headed man. This individual was tall and stout. He was dressed in a seedy suit of greasy broadcloth; and his hair and beard were a violent red. He seemed restless and ill at ease, passed and re-passed young Darrel, looked into the window of a still open shop, glanced at a near policeman with obvious nervousness, and conducted himself so uncomfortably that the novelist began to watch him. "That fellow wants to do something," he thought, "and can't make up his mind to take the first step. I'll bet a criminal matter occupies his thoughts. I'll keep my eye on him." Shortly the red-headed man walked past Frank with a resolute air, and disappeared down a dark lane to the left. Darrel, after some hesitation was about to follow, when the creature returned, and again, began his restless wanderings in the more populated lane. Once or twice he paused near the policeman, as though wishing to ask him some question, and once or twice his heart so failed him that he turned away, with a look of anxiety. Then he caught sight of Darrel, and advanced directly towards him; but again flinched and wilted away. At once interested and puzzled, Frank turned to observe the shop window, but in the meantime watched the red-headed man out of the corner of his eye. His appearance and behaviour promised an adventure. For the third time this vacillating individual stepped up to the policeman and almost opened his mouth to speak; but before he could utter a word he shrank away, and placed himself at the shop-window next to Frank. The young man, apparently indifferent, out of diplomacy, became aware that he was being scrutinised; and judged that the man was debating the advisability of speaking to him. The next moment, his judgment proved correct. "I beg your pardon," whispered the red-haired man in husky tones, "but could you tell me the whereabouts of Mortality- lane?" "It is close at hand," replied Frank readily. "I'll take you there if you like." "Thank you, no," said the other hurriedly; "just tell me where----" "I can't explain," answered Darrel, cutting him short. "You would not be able to find it in this network of streets. If you don't trust me, ask that policeman to guide you." The man winced and drew a quick breath, then looked again at Frank. "You are an educated man," said he--"a gentleman." "I might say the same of you," rejoined Darrel, who had noted the refined accent of the man, "but that is neither here nor there. Mortality-lane is to the left. Good-night, sir." "Stay, stay!" cried the red-headed man as Darrel moved away. "I trust you; please guide me to the place." Ever sparing of words, Frank nodded and turned down a side street, followed by his companion, who walked beside him in a cat-like way. In the narrow street there was but scant light, as the gas lamps were few and far between; still, the luminosity of the summer night revealed to Darrel that his companion kept at a respectful distance and had his right hand in the breast of his seedy coat. Evidently he was nervous of his guide, and feared a sudden assault in some dark corner. From this obvious fear Darrel concluded that his companion was not a criminal; and, moreover, carried some valuables about him which he dreaded might be stolen. On further reflection, the novelist decided that the red-headed man was a disguised gentleman, who was venturing into strange places and stranger company on some disreputable errand. Darrel wondered what his purpose might be, but did not think it advisable to ask questions; nor, as he mentally admitted, had he the right to do so. The two men walked onward in silence. The one a little in advance of the other. Turning down one street, crossing a second, walking up a third, they at length emerged into a small open space in which stood three four-wheeled cabs. Opposite the first of these, on the further side of the square, as it might be called, there was a narrow alley, and to this Darrel pointed. "Yonder is Mortality-lane," he said, "but it is not a very safe place for a single person. If you like, I'll go down----" "No--no," interrupted the red-headed man eagerly, "you have shewn me where it is; that is all I wish to know." "Are you not going down the lane?" asked Darrel in surprise. "On the contrary, I am going home," replied the man; then adding in an abrupt tone, "Good-night," he walked towards the first cab and spoke a few words to the driver. Darrel saw that he gave the cabman some money, then disappeared into the cab, closing the door after him. For two or three minutes the driver occupied himself in taking the blanket off his horse and adjusting the harness. Then he mounted the box and drove off slowly in the direction of the Strand. At once a wild desire came on Darrel to ascertain the reason of the red-headed man's strange behaviour. Almost without thinking he crossed over to the second cab and opened the door. "Follow that first cab," said he to the driver, "and I'll give you half a sovereign." "Hullo!" replied the man, noting suspiciously the dress of his fare, "wot's yer little game?" "Police business worth half a sovereign," was Darrel's diplomatic reply. "Blimme, that's all right, sir," said the driver, accepting this explanation with alacrity. "Jump in, an' I'll ketch up t'other keb in two shakes!" Confident that the driver would earn his money, Darrel lay back on the cushions, and wondered what would be the outcome of his pursuit. That the red-headed man should have turned away at the very goal towards which he had requested guidance was most extraordinary. If he had no special business in Mortality-lane, why had he inquired for it? and if he had a reason for going, and his reason was an innocent one, why did he not ask the policeman in Drury-lane instead of applying to a complete stranger? Frank, ever on the alert for romance, asked himself these questions, but could find no answer to them. However, he hoped to gratify his curiosity when he caught up with the stranger who was the cause of it--provided the stranger was willing to afford an explanation. The cab--presumably following the other vehicle--drove down Bell-street, and turned into the Strand, now almost emptied of traffic. It rolled along the thoroughfare as far as Trafalgar-square, then turned down Northumberland- avenue, passed along the Embankment, and up Arundel-street into the Strand again. Darrel was greatly puzzled by this circular route--the more so when he found his cab driving up Drury-lane. Then a sudden thought struck him. "The red-headed man fancied I was watching him," he said to himself, "and drove away to get rid of me. I should not be surprised if the first cab, with him inside, returns to the entrance to Mortality-lane." This proved to be the case, for following almost the same route as he had conducted the stranger, the first four-wheeler drove into the little square and took up its old station at the mouth of the lane. But by this time the third cab left behind had disappeared. "'Ere y'are, sir!" said Darrel's driver, opening the door. "We've both come back 'ome an' never stopped the whole bloomin' time. Carn't mek out wot 'Enry's fare's bin arter." Frank, as puzzled as the cabman, jumped out, and, walking to the first vehicle, looked inside. To his surprise, the red- headed man had vanished. "Wot's wrong with moy keb, mister," said the gruff voice of the driver. "The man--the man with the red hair?" inquired the amazed Darrel. "Oh, 'e's all right. Don't y' fret yerself about 'im. Wot y' poll-pryin' 'ere for, eh?" "Y'd best taike care, 'Enry," remarked the other cabman, sauntering up. "This gent's to do with the perlice." The insolence of Henry gave place at once to respect. "Didn't know you was a 'tec, sir. Might the cove with carrots be wanted?" "He might be," said Darrel, not thinking it wise to disclaim the profession attributed to him by the two cabmen. "When did he get out?" "Well, y' see, sir, he were never in, so to speak." "What do you mean?" "'Twas this way, sir. The carrots cove comes 'ere, an' sez: 'A man'--you, sir--''e's follerin' me. I'll give y' five bob to let me pass through yer keb an' down thet there lane. Then,' sez he, 'jes y' drive orf an' drive back, an' y' can pick me up and taike me 'ome.' So while I was talking the blannkit orf he whips in at one door, an' out of t'other, and down thet lane like mad. I drives orf, an' larfs when I sees you was follerin'. So 'ere I am back agin t' pick 'im up; but I don't see the bloomin' cove," concluded Henry, with a glance round. It was with great amazement that Darrel listened to the story of the cabman. Strange indeed must have been the errand of the red-haired man to Mortality-lane, when he was so suspicious of a stranger and took such elaborate precautions against discovery. The word discovery no sooner flashed into Darrel's brain than he repeated it aloud. Discovery of what? With, perhaps, unpardonable curiosity, Frank made up his mind to acquaint himself with the reason of the man's strange conduct. "Well," said he in reply to Henry, "I'll wait here with you until this man reappears." "Y'll wait by yerself, then," said Henry, getting on his box. "It's past one o'clock, an', fare or no fare, I ain't a-goin to stay all night." When he drove off Darrel was left alone with the other cabman, and turned towards him in some perplexity. "Are you going too?" he asked. "Yes, sir. Moy missus'll be expecting me," replied the man; "But," he added, taking down one of the cab lamps, "If y' think the gent's in that lane I'll go down with yer, an' look him up. Then I can drive y' both t' Bow-street." With great alacrity Frank assented to this, and they went down the middle of the lane. As the gas lamps were few, the cabman flashed the light he carried from right to left. Mortality-lane is not very long, and they were soon close to the end where it opens into Lincoln's Inn Fields. Here the cabman uttered an oath as he stumbled over a body. Darrel looked, and, in the circle of the light cast by the carriage candle, beheld the red-haired man stone dead, with an ugly wound over the heart. CHAPTER II THE BLONDE LADY On Monday morning Darrel lingered over his breakfast, considering the woful issue of his Saturday night's adventure. The alarm having been given by Bike, the cabman, the police had taken charge of the body and of the case and had requested Darrel to hold himself in readiness to be called as a witness. But the novelist, although willing to give evidence, wished to take a more active part in the matter. He desired to learn the motive for the crime, to discover the criminal, and ascertain by what means the murdered man had been lured to his death in Mortality-lane. In a word, Darrel wanted to change from spectator into actor, and to turn detective for the unriddling of this extraordinary enigma. To him the experience as he conceived, would be a liberal education in literary work. While thus meditating, a card was brought to him inscribed, rather abruptly, with the curt name, "Torry." Who he might be Darrel could not guess, but the owner of this baronial appellation seemed to think that it was sufficient to introduce him, as one not unknown to renown. Somewhat amused by this hinted vanity, Darrel gave orders that the visitor should be admitted, and speedily found himself face to face with a short little man, smiling and voluble. Mr. Torry was extremely stout, with a plump, red-cheeked face, clean-shaven; very white teeth, and a fringe of scanty brown hair encircling a polished bald head. At first sight he looked a kindly, frivolous creature, but a closer inspection shewed that his eyes contradicted this opinion. These were of a greyish-blue, keen and penetrating, and changed colour in accordance with the emotions in their owner's mind. A man with such eyes could not be a fool, and, with characteristic caution, Darrel held his peace until the visitor should explain his business. This was done in a moment. "I have called," said Mr. Torry, taking a chair uninvited, "to see you about this Mortality-lane affair." "From Scotland Yard?" "From New Scotland Yard, to be precise. I am Torry the detective, and the case I spoke of has been placed in my hands for elucidation." "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Torry," cried Darrel eagerly, "and any evidence I can give is at your disposal. But I have a favour to ask of you." "A favour!" cried Mr. Torry, in his turn, "Granted. I love doing favours." "Then do me this one," said Frank. "Let me assist you in the conduct of this case." Mr. Torry's eyes flashed like steel, and his mouth shut with a snap on the curt query: "Why?" "Well," said Darrel slowly, "you see, I am a novelist who tries to set forth things as they are, for the benefit of the B. P. I have written one or two detective novels, and have explained the mysteries of divers crimes, simply because, in the first instance, I invented those crimes. To parody Gilbert's song, I made the crime fit the discovery, and, so to speak, built up a house of cards, to be knocked down in the final chapter. Now here, Mr. Torry," pursued the young man with uplifted finger, "here is a crime in actual life, of chance's own making, which I, not having conceived, cannot elucidate. I, therefore, wish to set my wits to work, in order to learn if they will serve me as well in fact as they have done in fiction. I desire to take an active part in the working out of this real problem, to see if my literary method of detective analysis is correct. On these grounds--purely selfish ones, I fear--I ask you to let me assist you." Mr. Torry, who had listened to this long speech with his head on one side like an elderly bird, nodded at its conclusion. "I need not take time to consider your request," said he briskly; "you shall be my right hand if you will; but"--more gravely--"on one condition." "And that is?----" "That you let me guide you in every way, and that you take no step without consulting me." "Surely! I am only too glad to bow to your experience and judgment." "Then that settles it; we are partners. Your hand, Mr. Darrel," and novelist and detective shook hands on their agreement. After coming to this conclusion, they settled themselves to discuss the important matter which had brought them together. "Our task is to find out who killed this red-haired man, I suppose?" said Darrel slowly. "Well, not exactly, sir. You see, I know who killed him," replied the detective, nodding. Frank jumped to his feet. "You know who killed him?" he cried in amazement. "Yes. A lady with fair hair." "Are you sure?" "Going by circumstantial evidence, I am. "But are you sure? How do you know? Is she arrested?" The questions poured out of Darrel's mouth until Torry stopped him with a gesture. "She is beyond the power of the law," said he. "She is--dead." "Dead!" cried Darrel, recoiling. "Murdered." "Another crime?" "Precisely; and committed within an hour of the other. Red-hair was murdered, presumably, between the hours of twelve and one o'clock. Fair-hair was stabbed between one and two, also presumably." "It seems all presumption, Mr. Torry." "Naturally," replied the detective, "and must continue so, until the post-mortem examination, which takes place to- morrow at three." "Where was the woman's body found?" "On the Embankment, to be precise," added Torry using his favourite phrase. "The corpse was discovered on the steps of Cleopatra's Needle leading down to the water." "Oh!" said Darrel thoughtfully; "then the presumption is that the assassin tried to throw the body of his victim into the river?" "I think so; but probably he was interrupted while dragging it down the steps and was forced to fly." "Who found the body?" "A tramp who went to wash his hands in the river at six o'clock in the morning. I was busy examining the clothes of the red-haired man, when I heard of this new murder. Learning that it was a woman, I hurried off to view the body." "Had you any particular reason for this haste?" asked Frank. "I had a theory," rejoined Torry reflectively. "Rather far-fetched, to be sure; still a feasible theory. See here!" From his breast the detective produced a narrow strip of black lace much torn, and threw it on the white cloth of the breakfast-table. Darrel looked at it casually, and then glanced inquiringly at Torry. "That lace," explained Torry, "was in the left hand of the red-haired man; therefore I judged that when stabbed by the assassin he put out his hand to ward off the blow and mechanically clutched at the garments of his assailant. Now men do not wear lace, so I naturally concluded that the person who killed him was a woman. You follow me?" Darrel nodded. "Yes, your theory is a natural one. But how did you connect the one woman with the other?" "Well," said Torry, smoothing his bald head in a puzzled manner, "you have me there, for I don't exactly know how I can explain my idea. It was a flash of genius, I suppose. I thought it peculiar that a man should have been murdered by a woman, and then, on the same night, that a woman should have been killed also. The man was stabbed to the heart; the woman was stabbed to the heart. The first was killed in Mortality-lane; the second on the Embankment, no very great distance away. All these facts made me fancy that the one crime might be the outcome of the other." "I don't wonder at your fancy," said Darrel; "with coincidences the same thought would have occurred to me. So you went to look at the woman's body?" "Yes; and I found lace on her mantle similar to that; also half a yard torn off the front. There is about half a yard there," said Torry, pointing to the lace on the table; "in fact, I have no doubt but that the woman murdered the man." "It seems like it," assented Darrel; "but who murdered the woman?" "Ah! that is the problem we have to solve, Mr. Darrel. There is no mark on the woman's linen, no letter in her pocket, no name on her handkerchief. She seems to have been a well-to-do woman, in easy circumstances, as her clothes are of good material and well made. How to establish her identity I really do not know; there there is absolutely no point whence one can start." "Why not start from the red-headed man?" suggested Frank. "Why," said Torry, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger, "I might do that if he had not been disguised." "Disguised?" "Yes; the red hair is a wig, the red beard is false. The deceased is a gentleman of some age nearer sixty than fifty. He has a plump face and a bald head with a fringe of white hair--something like me," said Mr. Torry in parenthesis, "only my hair is brown. The man is clean-shaven and has several teeth stopped with gold." "You think he is--or rather was--a gentleman?" "I'm sure of it. His hands and feet are carefully attended to, and his linen is beyond reproach." "Ha! His linen. Is there no mark on it?" "There is. He changed his outward garments, but not his linen or socks--which shows that he was an amateur in disguising himself. A man who was in the habit of masquerading for evil purposes would have changed from top to toe. But this poor creature, not expecting to be murdered, never thought it was necessary to change anything but his outward aspect." "Is there a name on his shirt, then?" "No; there are initials. On his shirt, his undershirt, his pants, and on his socks are two letters, 'J.G.'" "The initials of his name." "I should think so," replied Torry. "All his underclothes are in good taste and of an expensive quality. I judge him to be a rich man." "You speak of him in the present instead of the past," said Darrel grimly. "He is not a man now, but a thing. Well, Mr. Torry, can't you trace his identity by those initials?" "Doubtless; especially as the name of the firm who made the shirt is stamped on the neck of it--Harcot and Harcot, of Bond-street. Oh, I don't think there will be any difficulty in identifying the man; but it will be more difficult to discover the name of the woman." "I don't think so," argued Darrel. "The one crime includes the other. Find out the motive of the woman in killing the man, and you will doubtless be led to discover the reason she was killed herself. I should begin from the clue of the initials." "Perhaps I will," said Torry thoughtfully; "and failing that clue, I'll try the other." "The other! What other?" "Why," said the detective, looking directly at his companion, "the clue of the Blue Mummy." CHAPTER III MR. TORRY'S THEORY "The Blue Mummy," repeated Darrel wonderingly; "what do you mean?" "Why!" said the detective, "I should rather say, the clue of the two Blue Mummies. Here they are." Out of his pocket, Torry produced two little clay images in the shape of mummies, each six inches in length, and coloured a deep blue. The lifeless faces, the swathings and bandages of the rigid forms, were perfectly modelled in clay, and on the breast of each was a representation of the sun rayed round with spiral flames. These idol-s--as they doubtless were--appeared to be of great antiquity, and were, undoubtedly, fine specimens of ceramic art. That the relics of a dead and gone civilisation should be connected with a modern criminal case, amazed Frank not a little. "Egyptian workmanship without doubt," said he, examining one of the little figures, "although I am not learned in such matters. Where did you get them?" "One was found in the pocket of the dead woman, the other on the ground near the body of the man. Another proof, to my mind, that there is a connection between the two crimes." "Curious," murmured Darrel, his eyes fixed on one of the images. "I wonder what they symbolise. If we could learn we might discover the motive for this double crime." "You don't know the meaning of these idols, I suppose, sir?" Darrel shook his head. "No," said he, "but I am acquainted with an Egyptologist who might tell us all about them. I'll take them to him if you like, Mr. Torry." "Take one, as they are precisely the same," replied the prudent detective, "and ask your friend what it represents; some god no doubt. But look here, Mr. Darrel," added Torry in a livelier tone, "I have answered all your questions, now you must reply to some of mine." "Willingly. What is it you wish to know?" "Tell me all that took place, from the time you saw the red-headed man in Drury-lane until the moment you discovered his dead body." To this natural request Darrel assented at once, and narrated his Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, adventure in Drury-lane. The detective listened in silence, his keen eyes fixed on the narrator, and when Darrel ceased he put a series of questions to him, noting the replies to the same in a little book. It may be here remarked that Mr. Torry used a cypher known to no one but himself; so, even if he lost his pocket-book, there was no chance of its contents becoming known. "You say that this man spoke like an educated gentleman?" "Certainly; his accent was most refined." "At what time did he address you first?" "Shortly after twelve o'clock." "How long did it take you to walk to Mortality-lane?" "Ten minutes, more or less, I should think. Altogether it was twenty minutes past midnight when he left me." "The drive to throw you off the scent took some time, I suppose?" Darrel calculated. "About forty minutes, more or less," he said. "We got back to Mortality-lane shortly after the clock struck one. Then I had some talk with the cabman who had misled me, according to instructions, and I remember him saying he was going home, because it was after one o'clock." "Then the murder must have been committed between half-past twelve and one o'clock in the morning?" "Yes, I am sure it was. Bike and myself found the corpse shortly after one o'clock. It was still warm," said Darrel, with a shudder. "The red-haired man was not at his ease with you, I suppose?" "On the contrary, he kept a safe distance between us, and all the time he had his right hand in the breast of his coat." "Oh, that was a revolver," said Torry indifferently, "we found it when the body was searched. But," added the detective with emphasis, "we did not find the valuables he carried." "Valuables! What valuables?" "I can't say. Papers, or jewels, or money; one of the three, I am certain!" "But what reason have you to think that he carried valuables?" asked Darrel becoming the questioner in his turn. Torry shrugged his plump shoulders. "He wouldn't have carried a revolver else," he remarked. "That might have been to protect himself against bad characters, such as he suspected me to be," objected Frank captiously. "No," replied Torry decisively, "I don't think so. He purposely assumed shabby clothes so that there would be nothing in his appearance to suggest that he was worth robbing. A threadbare vagrant slinking through the midnight streets, would attract no notice save that of a policeman, and he would not dare to use his revolver in that case." "Why not?" asked Darrel rather obtusely. "Because he would have run the risk of arrest, and his real name--which, obviously, he was anxious to conceal--would have come out. No, Mr. Darrel, the dead man had some valuable object, or perhaps, some money, in his possession, and carried the revolver to protect himself against possible robbery; and that supposition," concluded the detective, rubbing his plump knees "efbrings me to my theory." "To your theory?" Torry pointed to the image held by Darrel, "To be precise I should say to my clue--the clue of the Blue Mummy." "I don't quite see how you bring this into the matter." "Well," said Torry, "it is all theory, I admit; but my belief is this: The red-haired man carried some valuables, money, jewels, or papers, to the woman in Mortality-lane. When he delivered up the jewel--for the sake of clearness we'll say jewel--she gave him the Blue Mummy." "Why?" "As a kind of receipt, I suppose. Red-hair took the image in his right hand intending to put it into his pocket. At that moment, having the jewel in her possession, the woman struck at him with the knife she carried, and he, thrusting out his left hand to protect himself, caught at and tore the lace of her mantle. Naturally, as he had received his death-wound-- he was stabbed to the heart, you know--the Blue Mummy fell from his clasp and was found on the ground near his body." "Very ingenious," admitted Darrel sceptically, "But pure theory." "No doubt. Every detective must theorise to some extent, in order to have a basis to work on. But you must admit that my theory is a feasible one." "Certainly, but as regards this second Blue Mummy." "Oh! I believe that, after committing the murder, this woman went off to meet her assassin near Cleopatra's Needle. She gave him the jewels which he doubtless expected to receive, and he gave her, also as a receipt, the image of the second mummy. This she put in her pocket, and was turning away when he stabbed her. Then he tried to throw the body into the water, but, being interrupted, fled, leaving the work undone." "But," objected Darrel, finding flaws with the true instinct of criticism, "why do you suppose that the assassin gave this image to his victim? in the other case when she was the assassin, she gave the mummy to red-hair; it is possible, therefore, that she had this second one in her pocket." "Not if my theory is correct," retorted Torry, nettled. "The woman gave the mummy to red-hair as a receipt for the jewel; in her turn she received the second figure on delivering up the jewel to her assassin. "Well, admitting as much, why having obtained what he wanted, should he have killed her?" "Find out that and I'll find the murderer," said Torry grimly. "Well, Mr. Darrel, here is your detective novel in real life. What do you think of the plot provided by chance?" "Plot!" echoed Darrel. "I should rather call it a riddle--and one quite impossible to guess." "Ah, sir, you'll never make a detective if this mystery discourages you so early." "But I don't see how you intend to begin." "Well," said Torry, "in the first place there is the clue of the initials. I'll go to that shop in Bond-street and find out what the letters 'J.G.,' stand for. Thus I may arrive at the identity of the man, and thereby be able to learn about his past life. In his past life I may discover the motive for the crime. In itself the marked shirt is a good starting point, but there is also the clue of the four-wheeler." "The four-wheeler?" repeated Frank. "The one driven by Henry which the red-haired man used as a blind, or the second owned by Bike in which I followed?" "Neither. I am alluding to the third cab which was not on the stand when you returned at one o'clock." "I don't see what that cab has to do with the business." "Mr. Darrel! Mr. Darrel!" cried Torry gently. "You may be a good novelist, but, if you'll pardon my saying so, sir, you are a very bad detective. Is it not reasonable to suppose that the woman, anxious to get as far as possible from the scene of her crime would come up Mortality-lane and jump into the third cab? Also you must not forget that she had a rendezvous at Cleopatra's Needle, and, perhaps had to drive quickly to be in time." "Yes; but coming into contact with a cabman she ran the risk of being--recognised. She must have known that when the murder was discovered the police would probably guess her flight in the four-wheeler, and inquire about her from the driver. He would give her description and----" "Oh, that is very well!" said Torry, dismissing this objection with a wave of his plump hand, "but the woman never guessed for a moment that chance would intervene; and that by means of her death we should obtain evidence of her crime. She thought she would escape scot-free; also I daresay she was disguised. Or it might be that she was too agitated to pay attention to the risk she ran. "Anyhow, I am certain that she used the third cab to get away; and I am going to look up the driver." "How will you find him?" "By questioning Henry and Bike. Moreover, he may be on the cab-stand himself. I tell you what. Mr. Darrel," cried Torry, getting on his short legs, "let us make a division of labour. You go to Harcot and Harcot in Bond-street to find out what is the name attached to the letters, 'J.G.,' and I'll see to the cabman." "Very good, Mr. Torry. When and where am I to see you?" The detective pencilled an address on his card, and threw it across the table. "My private office, where we won't be disturbed," said he. "Eighty Craven-street, Strand. Come at four o'clock this afternoon. By the way, you might then be able to give me some information about the idol there." "I'll try," said Darrel. "My friend lives near the British Museum, so I shall have time to run up and see him. But there is one thing you are not certain of yet." "Sir," replied Mr. Torry drily, "there are many things of which I am not certain. But this special thing----" "You don't know if the individual who killed the woman at Cleopatra's Needle is male or female." "A male--a man, I'll stake my professional reputation on it." "Why are you so sure?" "Why?" echoed the detective, "because the woman ran too great a risk in committing the murder--she would only risk so much for a man." CHAPTER IV. THE DEAD MAN'S NAME Doing is better than dreaming; and a year of experience is worth a century of theorising. All his life Darrel had sat in his study laboriously weaving romances out of such material as he had collected in his wanderings. Now, by a happy chance of fortune, he was about to step out of his ideal world into actual life, and take an active part in a real story. Already fate had laid the foundation of an intricate plot; and it was his business to work out to a fit conclusion the criminal problem presented to him. In his own mind Darrel considered the task impossible. Conceive the difficulties of the case. A man--name unknown--meets with, and is murdered by, a woman. This woman-- also unknown--goes to keep tryst with an individual--either male or female--and is killed by him, or her. This was all the material upon which Darrel had to work, and it may be guessed that his heart failed him at the meagre detail afforded by the affair. The sole clues were two clay images coloured blue; the initials 'J.G.' marked on the murdered man's linen; and the possible chance of extracting useful information from a cabman. Yet starting from these three points, Torry hoped to arrive at the goal he aimed at, viz.: to capture, and condemn, and hang, the guilty individual. Darrel could not with-hold his admiration at the determination of the little man. "Detective fiction is easier to follow than detective fact," said Darrel to himself as he prepared to go out. "With the materials supplied by this Mortality-lane case, I could work out a very fair novel. Fate, Fortune, Destiny, or whosoever is designing this actual romance will develop it in quite a different way, no doubt. Well"--he put on his hat--"I am one of the actors in the drama, and it is my turn to step on to the stage. Here goes for an elucidation of the Blue Mummy Mystery." Rather amused by his own ideas, Darrel stepped into a hansom, and drove to his friend's rooms near the British Museum. In his pocket he carried the grotesque little image from which he hoped to learn so much. Luckily the Egyptologist--Patron was his name--proved to be at home, a long, lean savant with grizzled hair and spectacles. He received Darrel very amiably, for they were old friends, and had been fellow-students at Oxford. Frank looked still young and blooming, as was natural at the age of five-and-twenty; but Patron, though barely thirty, was already aged by hard study and a misanthropic temperament. In the hands of this prematurely old individual Darrel placed the image. "Look at the Egyptian mummy, old fellow," said he taking a seat, "and tell me what you think of it." Mr. Patron stroked his cheek and chin; examined the azure idol through his learned spectacles, and contradicted Frank in a clear, calm voice. "As usual, my dear Darrel, you speak without thinking," said he, "the image is not Egyptian at all." "It is the representation of a mummy," protested Frank, "and I always understood that the Egyptians were the only people who salted and dried their dead." "Then you understood wrongly," contradicted Patron. "The ancient Peruvians also embalmed their dead. This is the image of a Peruvian mummy." "How do you know?" asked Darrel, rather amazed at this remark. "Don't you see the representation of the sun on its breast?" snapped the other. "The ancient Peruvians were sun- worshippers. Judging from the solar symbol, I should say that this mummy comes from the tomb of some Inca. It is-- what we call--a tomb image." "What is that?" questioned the visitor. Patron cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and prepared for a long historical lecture. "In common with certain Asiatic nations," said he, "the ancient Peruvians practised the barbarous custom of immolating victims at the obsequies of great men. Sometimes--according to Prescott--a thousand attendants and favourite concubines would be slaughtered, so that they might accompany the dead Inca to his bright mansion in the sun. On occasions, however, the actual slaughter was dispensed with, and images of clay in the form of mummies, such as we see here," said the savant, pointing to the blue figure, "were substituted for human beings. For every counsellor, or slave, or wife, or attendant, a clay image was placed in the sepulchre of the dead; so that, in such instance, there would be many hundreds of these fictitious mummies arranged round the corpse. The figure we have here is an example of a tomb image. I hope I make myself clear?" "Perfectly," rejoined Darrel, slipping the image into his pocket. "But your lecture does not help me in the least." "In what way? Where did you get the mummy?" questioned Patron disconnectedly. "Out of a murdered woman's pocket." "Bless me! how strange! Why was she murdered? And how did she become possessed of so unique a curiosity as a Peruvian tomb-image? "Patron, my friend, those are two questions to which I am trying to obtain an answer." "If I can help you, Darrel----" "Thank you; Patron; but I fear you can help me no further. Good-day." "Good-day, good-day," replied the Egyptologist hastily; for his mind was already reverting to his own particular work, and he was becoming oblivious to the story told by his visitor. "Good-day;" after which he soared into cloudland. Darrel went away little satisfied with his visit. He had obtained certain historical information, but none likely to throw any light on the mystery of the double crime. The Blue Mummy was connected with the murders in some concealed way, independent of its archæological merits; and it was this hidden connection which Darrel desired to discover. At present, however, he could not see the slightest chance of gaining the necessary information; therefore, this especial clue was absolutely useless--at all events for the time being. Later on its value might be discovered and utilised; but in the meantime, Frank dismissed it, to follow up the clue of the initials on the linen of the dead man. To accomplish this he drove directly to Bond-street. The mere fact that the red-haired man--as in the absence of an actual name it is convenient to call him--was in the habit of dealing with Harcot and Harcot, shewed that he must have been, if not rich, at least fairly well off. The shop, as Darrel knew, was a very expensive one, and the goods it supplied were sold at much above their market value, from the fact that they were supposed to be particularly fashionable. Darrel carried with him the shirt of the dead man which had been confided to him by Torry; and this he displayed to the eyes of the senior partner. Mr. Harcot was a tall, stately-looking man, more like a Duke than a shopkeeper, and after examining the shirt through his pince-nez, he inquired loftily what it was Mr. Darrel desired to know. Darrel promptly supplied the information. "I wish to learn what those initials stand for," said he, laying his forefinger on the letters 'J.G.' "May I ask why!" Darrel reflected. "I see no reason why you should not know," he remarked; "but you must respect my confidence." "Certainly, sir, certainly," replied Harcot, whose curiosity was now excited. "Please come this way where we shall not be disturbed." The tradesman led the way into a small room partitioned off from the shop by a glass screen and on closing the door of this, he handed Darrel a chair with great politeness. "I await your explanation, sir," he said, smoothing out the shirt on the table. "One moment," said Frank quickly. "If I tell you my reason for asking this question, and you agree to answer it, can I rely on your being able to give me the desired information?" "Assuredly, sir. You will observe that under these letters 'J.G.' there is a number, one thousand four hundred and twenty. Well, sir, we index, so to speak, all shirts of our manufacture in that way; and--should your reason for seeking information satisfy me--I have only to look up that number in our books to learn for whom this shirt was made." "Then you had better do so at once, Mr. Harcot; for thereby you may be able to capture a criminal." The tradesman looked amazed. "Capture a criminal?" he repeated. "Yes. On Sunday morning last, after one o'clock, the man to whom that shirt belonged was murdered." "Murdered, sir!" "Yes; stabbed to the heart in Mortality-lane." "Dear, dear!" cried Mr. Harcot in much agitation. "You don't say so! I noticed an account of the tragedy in the Star--an early issue, Mr. Darrel, published at two o'clock; but I did not think that a customer of ours was the victim. How very dreadful! Who is the unfortunate gentleman?" "That is what I wish you to tell me, Mr. Harcot." "With pleasure, with pleasure; but if you will excuse my saying so, sir, I did not know that you were an officer of the law." "Nor am I," rejoined Darrel drily. "I am a novelist; but the detective in charge of this case has permitted me to assist him." "Oh, indeed, sir," replied Mr. Harcot, considerably astonished. "If you will permit me, sir, I will look up our books." Washing his hands with invisible soap, and bowing politely, Mr. Harcot vanished, leaving Darrel to his own thoughts. In about ten minutes he returned, looking very pale and concerned. Frank was a trifle surprised at this agitation. "Dear, dear!" gasped the man, sitting down with an air of consternation. "I am shocked, really. Such a respectable gentleman! so old a customer!" "What is the name?" cried Darrel anxiously. "Grent, sir; Jesse Grent, of Wray House, Wraybridge." "Grent--Grent!" muttered Darrel thoughtfully. "I seem to know the name." "Everybody does, Mr. Darrel. Grent and Leighbourne, of Fleet-street." "What! the bankers?" "Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Jesse Grent was the head of the firm and now he is an angel. I hope so, for he was a good man, sir, who paid his bills most regul----" "Thank you, Mr. Harcot," said Frank, cutting short these lamentations, which were a trifle mercenary. "You have told me all I wish to know. Mr. Jesse Grent, banker. H'm!--so he was the red-haired man." Mr. Harcot was about to protest that the late Mr. Grent had white hair, but that Frank, with a curt nod, walked smartly out of the shop. Whereupon Harcot senior went to inform Harcot junior of the loss of a good customer, and to suggest an immediate sending in of the bill to the executors. It was now too late to call at Torry's private office, as it was long after six o'clock before Frank terminated his inquiries; so he went back to his rooms and pondered over his discovery. He had heard of Mr. Grent, who was a rich banker and much respected. That he should be found dead in a disreputable neighborhood, in disguise, added to the mystery of the case. Frank thought over the matter all night, until his brain was on fire; and he was glad when the morning came that he could see Torry. Just as he was considering the advisability of paying a visit, the detective himself made his appearance and looked considerably disturbed. "I say, Mr. Darrel," he burst out, "there are two murderers!" "Two!" "Yes--a man and a woman!" CHAPTER V. "DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM" "A man and a woman!" repeated Darrel thoughtfully. "Who told you that, Mr. Torry?" "The third, cabman," replied the detective. "Main is his name. I found him along with Henry and Bike on the cab-stand near Mortality-lane." "Had you any difficulty in making him speak?" "No, not the least. He was quite willing to give information and assist the police in every way. Why do you suggest a...