“I wanted to see Dr. Thorndyke,” said I, adding discreetly, “on a matter of professional business.”
The little gentleman beamed on me benevolently. “The doctor,” said he, “has gone to lunch at his club, but he will be coming in quite shortly. Would you like to wait for him?”
“Thank you,” I replied, “I should, if you think I shall not be disturbing him.”
The little gentleman smiled; that is to say, the multitudinous wrinkles that covered his face arranged themselves into a sort of diagram of geniality. It was the crinkliest smile that I have ever seen, but a singularly pleasant one.
“The doctor,” said he, “is never disturbed by professional business. No man is ever disturbed by having to do what he enjoys doing.”
As he spoke, his eyes turned unconsciously to the table, on which stood a microscope, a tray of slides and mounting material, and a small heap of what looked like dressmaker’s cuttings.
“Well,” I said, “don’t let me disturb you, if you are busy.”
He thanked me very graciously, and, having installed me in an easy chair, sat down at the table and resumed his occupation, which apparently consisted in isolating fibres from the various samples of cloth and mounting them as microscopic specimens. I watched him as he worked, admiring his neat, precise, unhurried methods, and speculating on the purpose of his proceedings; whether he was preparing what one might call museum specimens, to be kept for reference, or whether these preparations were related to some particular case. I was considering whether it would be admissible for me to ask a question on the subject when he paused in his work, assuming a listening attitude, with one hand—holding a mounting-needle—raised and motionless.
“Here comes the doctor,” said he.
I listened intently and became aware of footsteps, very faint and far away, and only barely perceptible. But my clerical friend—who must have had the auditory powers of a watchdog—had no doubts as to their identity, for he began quietly to pack all his material on the tray. Meanwhile the footsteps drew nearer; they turned in at the entry and ascended the “first pair,” by which time my crinkly faced acquaintance had the door open. The next moment Dr. Thorndyke entered and was duly informed that “a gentleman was waiting to see” him.
“You underestimate my powers of observation, Polton,” he informed his subordinate, with a smile. “I can see the gentleman distinctly with the naked eye. How do you do, Gray?”—and he shook my hand cordially.
“I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time, sir,” said I. “If I have, you must adjourn me. But I want to consult you about a rather queer case.”
“Good,” said Thorndyke. “There is no wrong time for a queer case. Let me hang up my hat and fill my pipe and then you can proceed to make my flesh creep.”
He disposed of his hat, and when Mr. Polton had departed with his tray of material he filled his pipe, laid a note block on the table, and invited me to begin; whereupon I gave him a detailed account of what had befallen me in the course of the morning, to which he listened with close attention, jotting down an occasional note, but not interrupting my narrative. When I had finished he read through his notes and then said:
“It is, of course, evident to you that all the appearances point to suicide. Have you any reasons, other than those you have mentioned, for rejecting that view?”
“I am afraid not,” I replied gloomily. “But you have always taught us to beware of too ready acceptance of the theory of suicide in doubtful cases.”
He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said, “that is a cardinal principle in medico-legal practice. All other possibilities should be explored before suicide is accepted. But our difficulty in this case is that we have hardly any of the relevant facts. The evidence at the inquest may make everything clear. On the other hand it may leave things obscure. But what is your concern with the case? You are merely a witness to the finding of the body. The parties are all strangers to you, are they not?”
“They were,” I replied. “But I feel that someone ought to keep an eye on things for Miss D’Arblay’s sake, and circumstances seem to have put the duty on me. So, as I can afford to pay any costs that are likely to be incurred, I proposed to ask you to undertake the case—on a strict business footing, you know, sir.”
“When you speak of my undertaking the case,” said he, “what is it that is in your mind? What do you want me to do in the matter?”
“I want you to take any measures that you may think necessary,” I replied, “to ascertain definitely, if possible, how this man came by his death.”
He reflected awhile before answering. At length he said:
“The examination of the body will be conducted by the person whom the coroner appoints, probably the police surgeon. I will write to the coroner for permission to be present at the postmortem examination. He will certainly make no difficulties. I will also write to the police surgeon, who is sure to be quite helpful. If the postmortem throws no light on the case—in fact, in any event—I will instruct a first-class shorthand writer to attend at the inquest and make a verbatim report of the evidence; and you, of course, will be present as a witness. That, I think, is about all that we can do at present. When we have heard all the evidence, including that furnished by the body itself, we shall be able to judge whether the case calls for further investigation. How will that do?”
“It is all that I could wish,” I answered, “and I am most grateful to you, sir, for giving
