He had only come to “look in,” he explained. There was heavy work awaiting him at home, and he hinted at the new experiment he was making which would take up the greater part of the evening.
“How is your mother, Groat?” asked Lord Waltham.
“Thank you, sir, I think she is better,” replied Digby.
He wanted to keep off the subject of his mother.
“I can’t understand the extraordinary change that has come over her in late years,” said Lord Waltham with a little frown. “She used to be so bright and cheerful, one of the wittiest women I have ever met. And then, of a sudden, all her spirits seemed to go and, if you don’t mind my saying so, she seemed to get old.”
“I noticed that,” said Digby with an air of profound concern, “but women of her age frequently go all to pieces in a week.”
“I suppose there’s something in that. I always forget you’re a doctor,” smiled Lord Waltham.
Digby took his leave and he, too, was chuckling softly to himself as he went down the steps to his waiting car. He wondered what Lord Waltham would say if he had explained the secret of his mother’s banished brightness. It was only by accident that he himself had made the discovery. She was a drug-taker, as assiduous a “dope” as he had ever met in his professional career.
When he discovered this he had set himself to break down the habit. Not because he loved her, but because he was a scientist addicted to experiments. He had found the source of her supply and gradually had extracted a portion of the narcotic from every pellet until the drug had ceased to have its effect.
The result from the old woman’s point of view was deplorable. She suddenly seemed to wither, and Digby, whom she had ruled until then with a rod of iron, had to his surprise found himself the master. It was a lesson of which he was not slow to take advantage. Every day and night she was watched and the drug was kept from her. With it she was a slave to her habit; without it she was a slave to Digby. He preferred the latter form of bondage.
Mr. Septimus Salter had not arrived when Jim had reached the office that morning, and he waited, for he had a great deal to say to the old man, whom he had not seen for the better part of the week.
When he did come, a little gouty and therefore more than a little petulant, he was inclined to pooh-pooh the suggestion that there was anything in the sign of the Blue Hand.
“Whoever the person is, he or she must have had the stamp by them—you say it looks like a rubber stamp—and used it fortuitously. No, I can’t remember any Blue Hand in the business. If I were you I should not attach too much importance to this.”
Although Jim did not share his employer’s opinion he very wisely did not disagree.
“Now, what is this you were telling me about a will? You say Mrs. Groat has made a new will, subsequent to the one she executed in this office?”
Jim assented.
“And left all her money away from the boy, eh?” said old Mr. Salter thoughtfully. “Curiously enough, I always had an idea that there was no love lost between that pair. To whom do you say the money was left?”
“To the Marquis of Estremeda.”
“I know the name,” nodded Mr. Salter. “He is a very rich grandee of Spain and was for some time an attaché at the Spanish Embassy. He may or may not have been a friend of the Dantons. I cannot recall. There is certainly no reason why she should leave her money to one who, unless my memory is at fault, owns half a province and has three or four great houses in Spain. Now, here you are up against a real mystery. Now, what is your news?” he asked.
Jim had a little more to tell him.
“I am taking the chocolates to an analyst—a friend of mine,” he said, and Mr. Salter smiled.
“You don’t expect to discover that they are poisoned, do you?” he asked dryly. “You are not living in the days of Caesar Borgia, and with all his poisonous qualities I have never suspected Digby Groat of being a murderer.”
“Nevertheless,” said Jim, “I am leaving nothing to chance. My own theory is that there is something wrong with those innocent-looking sweetmeats, and the mysterious Blue Hand knew what it was and came to warn the girl.”
“Rubbish,” growled the old lawyer. “Get along with you. I have wasted too much time on this infernal case.”
Jim’s first call was at a laboratory in Wigmore Street, and he explained to his friend just enough to excite his curiosity for further details, which, however, Jim was not prepared to give.
“What do you expect to find?” said the chemist, weighing two chocolates in his palm.
“I don’t know exactly what I expect,” said Jim. “But I shall be very much surprised if you do not discover something that should not be there.”
The scientist dropped the chocolates in a big test-tube, poured in a liquid from two bottles and began heating the tube over a Bunsen burner.
“Call this afternoon at three o’clock and I will give you all the grisly details,” he said.
It was three o’clock when Jim returned, not expecting, it must be confessed, any startling results from the analysis. He was shown into the chemist’s office, and there on the desk were three test-tubes, standing in a little wooden holder.
“Sit down, Steele,” said Mendhlesohn. He was, as his name implied, a member of a great Jewish fraternity which
