Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

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      In a voice as hoarse as any raven's, and quite composedly, as if the Inspector were the object of compassion, Grace said, "Don't let it worry you, please. I don't mind it, not a bit." She drew her breath hard as she added without any show of feeling, "You will find father, won't you? Mother'll never forget you for it. You've been ever so good to us. I never tasted such tea, and, oh my! wasn't it hot neither? Come along, mother.

      "You had better leave your address," said Dick, who had listened to the woman's story with absorbed attention.

      "We live at Draper's Mews, number 7, second floor back." While Dick was writing it down Inspector Robson slipped a sixpence into Gracie's hand. Then, patting her shoulder, he gave her an encouraging smile, which she acknowledged, as she did the sixpence, though her fingers closed quickly and tightly over the coin, with the same gravity as distinguished all her movements. Emerging into the street she began to cough with great violence, and gasped and fought with her little fists, as though the demon in her chest, now that he had got her outside, was bent upon tearing her to pieces. The men in the police station listened compassionately until the child and her cough were lost in the fog through which she and her mother were slowly creeping.

      CHAPTER X

      UNCLE ROB AND DICK ARGUE IT OUT

      "Is that in your line, Dick?" said Inspector Robson. "You were wishing for something startling, and I should say you've got it."

      "It is hardly startling enough yet," Dick replied, "but there's no telling what it may lead to. Have you formed an opinion?"

      "I haven't heard lately of any dead bodies being found that couldn't be identified, but it looks to me as if the man has made away with himself."

      "No, uncle. I'll take his own word for it that he'd do his duty and fight it out to the bitter end."

      "Mightn't he have said so to his wife to quiet her? And even if it wasn't in his mind then, it might have come suddenly afterwards. When a man's in the state he was, there's no telling what he might do on the spur of the moment. I don't throw doubt on Mrs. Death's story, though I've heard some queer stories in my time and believed in them at the time they were told, only to find out a little later that there wasn't one word of truth in them. The lengths that people'll go to whose minds are unsettled is astonishing. Astonishing!" he repeated reflectively. "How often do you hear of men giving themselves up as murderers when they're as innocent as the babe unborn!"

      "Suppose we try and follow Mrs. Death's story out, uncle," said Dick.

      "Go ahead. Upon my word, Dick, I almost fancy I hear that poor child's cough now-the ghost of a cough travelling through the fog. It will make a ghost of her, I'm afraid, before she's many weeks older."

      "Poor little mite!" said Dick, and paused a moment. "Uncle Rob, you've the kindest heart that ever beat."

      "Pooh, pooh, my lad, the fog's got into your foolish noddle."

      "You don't deserve," pursued Dick, very earnestly, "to have trouble come upon you unaware-"

      "Dick!" cried Inspector Robson, startled by the unusual earnestness with which the words were spoken no less than by the words themselves. "Trouble come upon me unaware! Do you know what you are saying, my lad?"

      "I was thinking," said Dick, in some confusion, "of the trouble that comes unexpectedly to many people without their being prepared for it."

      "Oh, that! Well, when such trouble comes we've got to bear it and meet it like men."

      It was in Dick's mind, though not upon his tongue, "But if it comes upon you through the one you hold most dear, through Florence, dear to me as to you, how will you bear it then?"

      "Go on with the story of Abel Death, Dick. The last we see of him is when he sits at the table in his lodgings with his head in his hands, and starts up to make one more appeal to Samuel Boyd. The first question is, does he go straight to Catchpole Square, or does he go into a public and get drunk?"

      "He goes straight to Catchpole Square, and knocks at Samuel Boyd's door."

      "Admitted-for the sake of argument."

      "The next question is, does he get into the house?"

      "And there," said the Inspector, "we come to a full stop."

      "Not at all. Let us consider the possibilities. There are a dozen doors open."

      "All opening on different roads, and leading to confusion. Better to have one strong clue than a dozen to distract your mind."

      "Granted," said Dick; "but in the absence of that one strong clue I shall leave all the doors open till I see what is behind them. Let us suppose that Abel Death gets into the house."

      "Openly or secretly, Dick?"

      "Openly. Samuel Boyd admits him. He takes delight in playing with those whom he oppresses, in worrying and torturing them, in leading them on to hope, and then plunging them into despair. Abel Death being in the house, the question arises did he ever get out of it?"

      "What are you thinking of, Dick? Murder?"

      "The man is gone, and left no trace behind. If he had committed suicide it is a thousand to one that his body would have been found and identified."

      "True."

      "How do men commit suicide?" continued Dick. "I will confine myself to four methods: by poison, by hanging, by shooting, by drowning. It would have been difficult for Abel Death to purchase poison; his nerves were unstrung, and an inquiry for poison across the counter would have caused suspicion; the state of agitation he was in would have prevented the invention of a plausible explanation. We put poison aside. A pistol he could not have possessed, because of his poverty. We put shooting aside. Hanging comes next; but if he had resorted to that means of ending his life a very few hours would have sufficed to make the matter public. There would be no mystery to clear up. This reduces us to drowning. The water-ways of London do not hide many secrets of this nature, and had he sought death in the river his body would have been washed ashore."

      "Therefore, Dick," said Inspector Robson, looking at his nephew in admiration, "not suicide."

      "Therefore, uncle, not suicide."

      "He may have run away."

      "With what object? His pockets were empty, and the idea of unfaithfulness to his wife is preposterous."

      "Very well. Let us get back to the main point. What has become of Abel Death. We left him in Samuel Boyd's house, and we decide that he did not come out of it. I am going to have my say now."

      "Fire away."

      "The man not coming out of the house, the natural conclusion is that he is dead, and if he did not meet his death by suicide there has been murder done. To be sure," he said, reflectively, "there are other probabilities. He might have had heart disease-might have fallen down in a fit which put an end to him. Assuming this, what course would Samuel Boyd, or any sensible person, pursue? He would give information-his own safety depended upon it. A doctor's certificate as to the cause of death would clear him. He does nothing of the sort. He keeps himself locked up in the house, and refuses to answer the repeated knocks at his street door. I have heard you say he lives alone, and that no servant sleeps in the house."

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