Part 13 (1/2)

”Mr. Cazalette!” said I, ”what were the results of your labours? I don't suppose that the print which was in your pocket-book was the only one you possess?”

”You're right there,” he replied. ”It wasn't. If the thief thought he was securing something unique, he was mistaken. But--I didn't want him, or anybody, to get hold of even one print, for as sure as we're living men, Middlebrook, what was on the inside of that lid was--a key to something!”

”You forget that the tobacco-box itself has been stolen from the police's keeping,” I reminded him.

”And I don't forget anything of the sort,” he retorted. ”And the fact you've mentioned makes me all the more a.s.sured, my man, that what I say is correct! There's him, or there's them--in all likelihood it's the plural--that's uncommonly anxious, feverishly anxious, to get hold of that key that I suspicion. What were Salter Quick's pockets turned out for? What were the man's clothes slashed and hacked for? Why did whoever slew Noah Quick at Saltash treat the man in similar fas.h.i.+on?

It wasn't money the two men were murdered for!--no, it was for information, a secret! Or, as I put it before, the key to something.”

”And you believe, really and truly, that this key is in the marks or scratches or whatever they are on the lid of the tobacco-box?” I asked.

”Aye, I do!” he exclaimed. ”And what's more, Middlebrook, I believe I'm a doited old fool! If I'd contrived to get a good, careful, penetrating look at that box, without saying anything to the police, I should ha' shown some common-sense. But like the blithering old idiot that I am, I spoke my thoughts aloud before a company, and I made a present of an idea to these miscreants. Until I said what I did, the murderous gang that knifed yon two men hadn't a notion that Salter Quick carried a key in his tobacco-box! Now--they know.”

”You don't mean to suggest that any of the murderers were present when you asked permission to photograph the box!” I exclaimed.

”Impossible!”

”There's very few impossibilities in this world, Middlebrook,” he answered. ”I'm not saying that any of the gang were present in Raven's outhouse yonder, where they carried the poor fellow's body, but there were a dozen or more men heard what I said to the police-inspector, like the old fool I was, and saw me taking my photograph. And men talk--no matter of what degree they are.”

”Mr. Cazalette,” said I, ”I'd just like to see your results.”

He got off his bed at that, and going over to a chest of drawers, unlocked one, and took out a writing-case, from which he presently extracted a sheet of cardboard, whereon he had mounted a photograph, beneath which, on the cardboard, were some lines of explanatory writing in its fine, angular style of caligraphy. This he placed in my hand without a word, watching me silently as I looked at it.

I could make nothing of the thing. It looked to me like a series--a very small one--of meaningless scratches, evidently made with the point of a knife, or even by a strong pin on the surface of the metal.

Certainly, the marks were there, and, equally certainly, they looked to have been made with some intent--but what did they mean?

”What d'ye make of it, lad?” he inquired after awhile. ”Anything?”

”Nothing, Mr. Cazalette!” I replied. ”Nothing whatever.”

”Aye, well, and to be candid, neither do I,” he confessed. ”And yet, I'm certain there's something in it. Take another look--and consider it carefully.”

I looked again--this is what there was to look at: mere lines, and at the foot of the photograph, Mr. Cazalette's explanatory notes and suggestions: I sat studying this for a few moments. ”I make nothing of it. It seems to be a plan. But of what?”

”It is a plan, Middlebrook,” he answered. ”A plan of some place. But there I'm done! What place? Somebody that's in the secret, to a certain point, might know--but who else could? I've speculated a deal on the meaning and significance of those lines and marks, but without success. Yet--they're the key to something.”

”Probably to some place that Salter Quick knew of,” I suggested.

”Aye, and that somebody else wants to know of!” he exclaimed. ”But what place, and where?”

”He was asking after a churchyard,” said I, suddenly remembering Quick's questions to me and his evident eagerness to acquire knowledge. ”This may be a rude drawing of a corner of it.”

”Aye, and he wanted the graves of the Netherfields,” remarked Mr.

Cazalette, dryly. ”And I've made myself a.s.sured of the fact that there isn't a Netherfield buried anywhere about this region! No, it's my belief that this is a key to some spot in foreign parts, and that there's those who are anxious to get hold of it that they'll not stop--and haven't stopped--at murder. And now--they've got it!”

”They've got--or somebody's got--your pocket-book,” I answered. ”But really, you know, Mr. Cazalette, this, and the handkerchief, mayn't have been the thief's object. You see, it must be pretty well known that you go down there to bathe every morning, and are in the habit of leaving your clothes about--and, well there may be those who're not particularly honest even in these Arcadian solitudes.”

”No--I'm not with you, Middlebrook!” he said. ”Somewhere around us there's what I say--crafty and b.l.o.o.d.y murderers! But ye'll keep all this to yourself for awhile, and----”

Just then the dinner-bell rang, and he put the photographic print away, and we went downstairs together. That was the evening on which Dr. Lorrimore was to dine with us--we found him in the hall, talking to Mr. Raven and his niece. Joining them, we found that their subject of conversation was the same that had just engaged Mr. Cazalette and myself--the tobacco-box. It turned out that the police-inspector had been round to Lorrimore's house, inquiring if Lorrimore, who, with the police-surgeon, had occupied a seat at the table whereon the Quick relics were laid out at the inquest, had noticed that now missing and consequently all-important object.