“Yes,” admitted Hetherwick. “It’s something. But there’s spadework to be done yet, Matherfield. I don’t think there’s any doubt, now, that Granett encountered Hannaford after he left Appleyard—and that indicates that Granett and Hannaford were old acquaintances. But, supposing they met at, or soon after, ten o’clock—where did they go, where did they spend their time between that and the time they entered my compartment at St. James’s Park?”
“That would be—what?” asked Matherfield.
“It was well after midnight—mine was the last train going east, anyway,” said Hetherwick. “I only just caught it at Sloane Square. But we can ascertain the exact time, to a minute. Still, those two, meeting accidentally, as I conclude they did, must have been together two or three hours. Where?—at that time of night. Surely there must be some way of finding that out! Two men, each rather noticeable—somebody must have seen them together, somewhere! It seems impossible that they shouldn’t have been seen.”
“Aye, but in my experience, Mr. Hetherwick, it’s the impossible that happens!” rejoined Matherfield. “In a beehive like this, where every man’s intent on his own business, ninety-nine men out of a hundred never observe anything unless it’s shoved right under their very eyes. Of course, if we could find out if and where Hannaford and Granett were together that night, and where Granett went to after he slipped away at Charing Cross, it would vastly simplify matters. But how are we going to find out? There’s been immense publicity given to this case in the papers, you know, Mr. Hetherwick—portraits of Hannaford, and details about the whole affair, and so on, and yet we’ve had surprisingly little help and less information. I’ll tell you what it is, sir—what we want is that tall, muffled-up chap who met Hannaford at Victoria! Who is he, now?”
“Who, indeed!” assented Hetherwick. “Vanished!—without a trace.”
“Oh, well!” said Matherfield cheerfully, “you never know when you might light on a trace. But here we are at this unsavoury Fligwood’s Rents.”
The cab pulled up at the entrance to a dark, high-walled, stone-paved alley, which at that moment appeared to be full of women and children; so, too, did the windows on either side. The whole place was sombre and evil-smelling, and Hetherwick felt a sense of pity for the unfortunate man whose luck had been bad enough to bring him there.
“A murder, a suicide, or a sudden death is as a breath of heaven to these folk!” said Matherfield as they made their way through the ragged and frowsy gathering. “It’s an event in uneventful lives. Here’s the place,” he added, as they came to a doorway whereat a policeman stood on guard. “And here are the stairs—mind you don’t slip on ’em, for the wood’s broken and the banisters are smashed.”
Hetherwick cautiously followed his guide to the top of the house. There at another door stood a second policeman, engaged when they caught sight of him in looking out through the dirt-obscured window of the landing. His bored countenance brightened when he saw Matherfield; stepping back he quietly opened the door at his side. And the two newcomers, silent in view of the task before them, tiptoed into the room beyond.
It was, as Matherfield had remarked, a poor place, but it was clean and orderly, and its occupant had evidently tried to make it as habitable and comfortable as his means would allow. There were one or two good prints on the table; half a dozen books on an old chest of drawers; in a cracked vase on the mantelpiece there were a few flowers, wilted and dead. Hetherwick took in all this at a glance; then he turned to Matherfield, who silently drew aside a sheet from the head and shoulders of the rigid figure on the bed, and looked inquiringly at his companion. And Hetherwick gave the dead man’s face one careful inspection and nodded.
“Yes!” he said. “That’s the man!”
“Without doubt?” asked Matherfield.
“No doubt at all,” affirmed Hetherwick. “That is the man who was with Hannaford in the train. I knew him instantly.”
Matherfield replaced the sheet and turned to a small table which stood in the window. On it was a box, a square, old-fashioned thing, clamped at the corners.
“This seems to be the only thing he had that’s what you may call private,” he observed. “It’s locked, but I’ve got a tool here that’ll open it. I want to know what’s in it—there may be something that’ll give us a clue.”
Hetherwick stood by while Matherfield forced open the lock with an instrument which he produced from his pocket, and began to examine the contents of the box. At first there seemed little that was likely to yield information. There was a complete suit of clothes and an outfit of decent linen; it seemed as if Granett had carefully kept these in view of better days. There were more books, all of a technical nature, relating to chemistry; there was a small case containing chemical apparatus, and another in which lay a pair of scales; in a third they found a microscope.
“He wasn’t down to the very end of his resources, or he’d have pawned these things,” muttered Matherfield. “They all look good stuff, especially the microscope. But here’s more what I want—letters!”
He drew forth two bundles of letters, neatly
