“I should like to be in at the death,” I said eagerly.
“That is well enough,” said he, “so long as it is his death. You must bring your pistol, and don’t be afraid to use it.”
“And how shall I know when I am wanted?” I asked.
“You had better go to the studio tomorrow morning,” he replied. “I will send a note by Polton giving you particulars of the time when we shall call for you. And now we may as well help Polton to prepare for our other visitors; and I think, Gray, we will say as little as possible about this morning’s proceedings or those of tomorrow. Explanations will come better after the event.”
With this, we went down to the dining-room, where we found Polton sedately laying the table, having just got rid of the two ladies. We made a show of assisting him, and I ventured to inquire:
“Who is doing the cooking today, Polton? Or is it to be a cold lunch?”
He looked at me almost reproachfully as he replied:
“It is to be a hot lunch, and I am doing the cooking, of course.”
“But,” I protested, “you have been up to your eyes in other affairs all the morning.”
He regarded me with a patronizing crinkle. “You can do a good deal,” said he, “with one or two casseroles, a hay-box, and a four-story cooker on a gas stove. Things don’t cook any better for your standing and staring at them.”
Events went to prove the soundness of Polton’s culinary principles; and the brilliant success of their application in practice gave a direction to the conversation which led it comfortably away from other and less discussable topics.
XVIII
The Last Act
Shortly before leaving Thorndyke’s chambers with Marion and Miss Boler I managed to secure his permission to confide to them, in general terms, what was to happen on the morrow; and very relieved I was thereat, for I had little doubt that questions would be asked which it would seem ungracious to evade. Events proved that I was not mistaken; indeed, we were hardly clear of the precincts of the Temple when Marion opened the inquisition.
“You said yesterday,” she began, “that Dr. Thorndyke might have something to tell us today, and I hoped that he might. I even tried to pluck up courage to ask him, but then I was afraid that it might seem intrusive. He isn’t the sort of man that you can take liberties with. So I suppose that whatever it was that happened this morning is a dead secret?”
“Not entirely,” I replied. “I mustn’t go into details at present, but I am allowed to give you the most important item of information. There is going to be an arrest tomorrow.”
“Do you mean that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the man?” Marion demanded incredulously.
“He says that he has, and I take it that he knows. What is more, he offered to conduct the police to the house. He has actually given them the address.”
“I would give all that I possess,” exclaimed Miss Boler, “to be there and see the villain taken.”
“Well,” I said, “you won’t be far away, for the man lives in Abbey Road, nearly opposite the studio.”
Marion stopped and looked at me aghast. “What a horrible thing to think of,” she gasped. “Oh, I am glad I didn’t know! I could never have gone to the studio if I had. But now we can understand how he managed to find his way to the place that foggy night, and to escape so easily.”
“Oh, but it is not that man,” I interposed, with a sudden sense of hopeless bewilderment. For I had forgotten this absolute discrepancy when I was talking to Thorndyke about the identification.
“Not that man!” she repeated, gazing at me in wild astonishment. “But that man was my father’s murderer. I feel certain of it.”
“So do I,” was my rather lame rejoinder.
“Besides,” she persisted; “if he was not the murderer, who was he, and why should he want to kill me?”
“Exactly,” I agreed, “it seems conclusive. But apparently it isn’t. At any rate, the man they are going to arrest is the man whose mask Thorndyke found at the studio.”
“Then they are going to arrest the wrong man,” said she, looking at me with a deeply troubled face. I was uncomfortable, too, for I saw what was in her mind. The memory of the ruffian who had made that murderous attack on her still lingered in her mind as a thing of horror. The thought that he was still at large and might at any moment reappear, made it impossible for her ever to work alone in the studio, or even to walk abroad without protection. She had looked, as I had, to the discovery of the murderer to rid her of this abiding menace. But now it seemed that even after the arrest of the murderer, this terrible menace would remain.
“I can’t understand it,” she said dejectedly. “When you showed me that photograph of the man who tried to kill me, I naturally hoped that Dr. Thorndyke had discovered who he was. But now it appears that he is at large and still untraced, yet I am convinced that he is the man who ought to have been followed.”
“Never mind, my dear,” I said cheerfully. “Let us see the affair out. You don’t understand it and neither do I. But Thorndyke does. I have absolute faith in him, and so, I can see, have the police.”
She assented without much conviction, and then Miss Boler began to press for further particulars. I mentioned the probable time of the arrest and the
