Thorndyke’s impassive face softened with a faint, inscrutable smile.
“We hold a promising hand, Miller,” he replied quietly; “but if the ace is there, it is you who will have the satisfaction of playing it. And I hope to see you put it down quite soon.”
Miller grunted. “Very well,” said he. “I can see that I am not going to get any more out of you than that; so I must wait for you to develop your plans. Meanwhile I am going to ask Dr. Usher for a signed statement.”
“Yes, that is very necessary,” said Thorndyke. “You two had better go on together and set down Gray and me in the Kingsland Road, where he and I have some other business to transact.”
I glanced at him quickly as he made this astonishing statement—for we had no business there, or anywhere else that I knew of. But I said nothing. My recent training had not been in vain.
A few minutes later, near to Dalston Junction, he stopped the carriage, and, having made our adieux, we got out. Then Thorndyke strode off down the Kingsland Road but presently struck off westward through a bewildering maze of seedy suburban streets and shabby squares in which I was as completely lost as if I had been dropped into the midst of the Sahara.
“What is the nature of the business that we are going to transact?” I ventured to ask as we turned yet another corner.
“In the first place,” he replied, “I wanted to hear what conclusions you had reached in view of this discovery at the cemetery.”
“Well, that won’t take long,” I said, with a grin. “They can be summed up in half a dozen words: I have come to the conclusion that I am a fool.”
He laughed good-humouredly. “There is no harm in thinking that,” he said, “provided you are not right—which you are not. But did that empty coffin suggest no new ideas to you?”
“On the contrary,” I replied, “it scattered the few ideas that I had. I am in the same condition as Superintendent Miller: an inextricable muddle.”
“But,” he objected, “you are not in the same position as the Superintendent. If he knew all that you and I know, he wouldn’t be in a muddle at all. What is your difficulty?”
“Primarily the discrepancies about this man Crile. There seems to be no possible doubt that he died. But apparently he was never buried; and you and Miller seem to believe that he is still alive. Further, I don’t see what business Crile is of ours at all.”
“You will see that presently,” said he, “and meanwhile you must not confuse Miller’s beliefs with mine. However,” he added, as we crossed a bridge over a canal—presumably the Regent’s Canal—“we will adjourn the discussion for the moment. Do you know what street that is ahead of us?”
“No,” I answered; “I have never been here before, so far as I know.”
“That is Field Street,” said he.
“The street that the late Mr. Crile lived in?”
“Yes,” he answered; and as we passed on into the street from the foot of the bridge, he added, pointing to a house on our left hand: “And that is the residence of the late Mr. Crile—empty, and to let, as you observe.”
As we walked past I looked curiously at the house, with its shabby front and its blank, sightless windows, its desolate condition emphasized by the bills which announced it; but I made no remark until we came to the bottom of the street, when I recognized the cross road as the one along which I used to pass on my way to the Morrises’ house. I mentioned the fact to Thorndyke, and he replied: “Yes. That is where we are going now. We are going to take a look over the premises. That house also is empty, and I have got a permit from the agent to view it and have been entrusted with the keys.”
In a few minutes we turned into the familiar little thoroughfare, and as we took our way past its multitudinous stalls and barrows I speculated on the object of this exploration. But it was futile to ask questions, seeing that I had but to wait a matter of minutes for the answer to declare itself. Soon we reached the house and halted for a moment to look through the glazed door into the empty shop. Then Thorndyke inserted the key into the side door and pushed it open.
There is always something a little melancholy in the sight of an empty house which one has known in its occupied state. Nothing, indeed, could be more cheerless than the Morris household; yet it was with a certain feeling of depression that I looked down the long passage (where Cropper had bumped his head in the dark) and heard the clang of the closing door. This was a dead house—a mere empty shell. The feeble life that I had known in it was no more. So I reflected as I walked slowly down the passage at Thorndyke’s side, recalling the ungracious personalities of Mrs. Morris and her husband and the pathetic figure of poor Mr. Bendelow.
When from the passage we came out into the hall, the sense of desolation was intensified, for here not only the bare floor and vacant walls proclaimed the untenanted state of the house. The big curtain that had closed in the end of the hall, and to a great extent furnished it, was gone, leaving the place very naked and chill. Incidentally, its disappearance revealed a feature of whose existence I had been unaware.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “they had a second street door. I never saw that. It was hidden by a curtain. But it can’t open into Market Street.”
“It doesn’t,” replied Thorndyke. “It opens on Field Street.”
“On Field Street!” I repeated in surprise. “I wonder why they didn’t let me in that way. It is really the front of the house.”
“I
