“Good heavens!” he muttered, more to himself than to the man at his side. “That poor fellow was alive, and, as far as I could see, in the very best of health and spirits, five minutes ago!”
“No doubt!” observed the doctor dryly. “But he’s dead now. What happened?”
Hetherwick told him briefly.
“And the other man’s—gone!” remarked the doctor. “Um! But I suppose nobody thought of detaining him. Now—if he doesn’t come back—eh?”
“You don’t suspect foul play?” exclaimed Hetherwick.
“The circumstances are odd,” said his companion. “I should say the man just died! Died as suddenly as man can die—as if he’d been shot dead or literally blown to fragments. That’s from what you tell me, you know. And it may be—a case of poisoning. Will that other man come back? If not—”
By that time Hetherwick was beginning to wonder if the other man would come back. He had not come at the end of ten minutes; nor of fifteen; nor of thirty. But other men had come, hurrying into the drab-walled waiting-room and gathering about the table on which the dead man had been laid. They were mostly officials and police, and presently a police surgeon arrived and with him a police inspector, one Matherfield, who knew Hetherwick. While the two doctors made another examination, this man drew Hetherwick aside. Hetherwick retold his story; this time with full details. Matherfield listened and shook his head.
“That second man won’t come back!” he said. “Gone half an hour now. Do you think he knew the man was dead before he cleared out?”
“I can’t say,” replied Hetherwick. “The whole thing was so quick that it was all over before I could realise what was happening. I certainly saw the other man give the dead man a quick, close inspection. Then he literally jumped for the door—he was out of it and running up the stairs before the train had come to a definite stop.”
“You can describe him, Mr. Hetherwick?” suggested the inspector.
“Describe him?—yes. And identify him, too,” asserted Hetherwick. “He was a man of certain notable features. I should know him again, anywhere.”
“Well, we’ll have to look for him,” said Matherfield. “And now we’ll have to take this dead man to the mortuary and have a thorough examination and see what he’s got on him. You’d better come, Mr. Hetherwick—in fact, I shall want you.”
Hetherwick went—in the tail of a sombre procession, himself and the two medical men walking together. He had to tell his tale again, to the police surgeon; that functionary, like all the rest who had heard the story, shook his head ominously over the disappearance of the sallow-faced man.
“All an excuse, that,” he said. “There’s no doctor close by. You didn’t get any idea—from their conversation, I mean—of the dead man’s identity? Any name mentioned?”
“I heard no name mentioned,” answered Hetherwick. “They didn’t address each other by name. I’ve no idea who the man is.”
That was what he wanted to know. Somewhere, of course, this dead man had friends. He had spoken of his hotel—there, perhaps, somebody was awaiting his coming; somebody to whom the news of his death would come as a great shock, perhaps, and terrible trouble. And he waited with a feeling that was little short of personal anxiety while the police searched the dead man’s pockets.
The various articles which were presently laid out on a side-table were many. There was a purse, well stocked with money; there was loose money in the pockets. There was a handsome gold watch and a heavy chain and locket. There was a pocketbook, stuffed with letters and papers. And there were all the things that a well-provided man carries—a cigar-case, a silver matchbox, a silver pencil-case, a penknife, and so on; clearly, the dead man had been in comfortable circumstances. But the articles of value were brushed aside by the inspector; his immediate concern was with the contents of the pocketbook, from which he hastened to take out the letters. A second later he turned to Hetherwick and the two doctors, nodding his head sidewise at the still figure on the table.
“This’ll be the name and address,” he said, pointing to the envelopes in his hand. “Mr. Robert Hannaford, Malter’s Private Hotel, Surrey Street, Strand. Several letters, you see, addressed there, and all of recent date. We’ll have to go there—there may be his wife and people of his there. Wonder who he was?—somebody from the provinces, most likely. Well—”
He laid down the letters and picked up the watch—a fine gold-cased hunter—and released the back. Within that was an inscription, engraved in delicate lettering. The inspector let out an exclamation.
“Ah!” he said. “I half suspected that from his appearance. One of ourselves! Look at this—‘
Presented to Superintendent Robert Hannaford, on his retirement, by the Magistrates of Sellithwaite.
Sellithwaite, eh?—where’s that, now?”
“Yorkshire,” replied one of the men standing close by. “Southwest Riding.”
Matherfield closed the watch and laid it by.
“Well,” he remarked, “that’s evidently who he is—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite, Yorkshire, stopping at Malter’s Hotel. I’ll have to go round there. Mr. Hetherwick, as you were the last man to see him alive, I wish you’d go with me—it’s on your way to the Temple.”
Something closely corresponding to curiosity, not morbid, but compelling, made Hetherwick accede to this request. Presently he and Matherfield walked along the Embankment together, talking of what had just happened and speculating on the cause of Hannaford’s sudden death.
“We may know the exact reason by noon,” remarked Matherfield. “There’ll be a postmortem, of course. But that other man!—we may get to know something about him here. And I wonder whom we shall find here? Hope it’s not his wife. …”
II
Whose Portrait Is This?
Malter himself opened the door of his small private hotel; a quiet, reserved man who looked like a retired butler. He was the
