black across the water, which glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homeward.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-of- the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein — so many that I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to the full.
There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary — a steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very troubled expression.
'I know your immense experience, sir,' said he. 'This is quite unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I not?'
'Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?'
'Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it. That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?'
'What have you against him?'
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.
'What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this evidence against him?' The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled in his mind.
'Consider,' I said, 'all the essential gaps in your case. On the morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is this question of the instrument with which these injuries were inflicted.'
'What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?'
'Have you examined the marks?' I asked.
'I have seen them. So has the doctor.'
'But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have peculiarities.'
'What are they, Mr. Holmes?'
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. 'This is my method in such cases,' I explained.
'You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.'
'I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing remarkable?'
'I can't say I do.'
'Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?'
'I have no idea. Have you?'
'Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon. Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way towards the criminal.'
'It is, of course, an absurd idea,' said the policeman, 'but if a red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other.'
'A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?'
'By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it.'
'Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words — the 'Lion's Mane.''
'I have wondered whether Ian—'
'Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any resemblance to Murdoch — but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek. I am sure that it was 'Mane.''
'Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?'
'Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss.'
'And when will that be?'
'In an hour — possibly less.'
The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
'I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's those fishing-boats.'
'No, no, they were too far out.'
'Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?'
'No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready,' said I with a smile. 'Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were to meet me here at midday—'
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. 'Brandy! Brandy!' he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting, almost as distrait as his companion.
'Yes, yes, brandy!' he cried. 'The man is at his last gasp. It was all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way.'
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders. 'For God's sake oil, opium, morphia!' he cried. 'Anything to ease this infernal agony!'
The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
'My God!' he cried, 'what is it, Holmes? What is it?'
