“You don’t mean that you are asked to be present when the actual arrest is made, do you?” Marion asked anxiously.
“Yes,” I answered. “You see I am the only person who really knows the man by sight.”
“But,” she urged, “you are not a policeman. Suppose this man should be violent, like that other man; and he probably will be.”
“Oh,” I answered airily, “that will be provided for. Besides, I am not asked to arrest him; only to point him out to the police.”
“I wish,” she said, “you would stay in the studio until they have secured him. Then you could go and identify him. That would be much safer.”
“No doubt,” I agreed. “But it might lead to their arresting the wrong man and letting the right one slip. No, Marion, we must make sure of him if we can. Surely you are at least as anxious as any of us that he should be caught and made to pay the penalty?”
“Yes,” she answered, “if he is really the right man—which I can hardly believe. But still, punishing him will not bring poor Daddy back, whereas if anything were to happen to you, Stephen—Oh! I don’t dare to think of it!”
“You needn’t think of it, Marion,” I rejoined, cheerfully. “I shall be all right. And you wouldn’t have your apprentice hang back when these Bobbies are taking the affair as a mere everyday job.”
She made no reply beyond another anxious glance; and I was glad enough to let the subject drop, bearing in mind Thorndyke’s words with regard to the pistol. As a diversion, I suggested a visit to the National Gallery, which we were now approaching, and the suggestion being adopted, without acclamation, we drifted in and rather listlessly perambulated the galleries, gazing vacantly at the exhibits and exchanging tepid comments. It was a spiritless proceeding, of which I remember very little but some rather severe observations by Miss Boler concerning a certain “hussy” (by one, Bronzino) in the great room. But we soon gave up this hollow pretence, and went forth to board a yellow bus which was bound for the Archway Tavern; and so home to an early supper.
On the following morning I made my appearance betimes at Ivy Cottage, but it was later than usual when Marion and I started to walk in leisurely fashion to the studio.
“I don’t know why we are going at all,” said she. “I don’t feel like doing any work.”
“Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. “There is plenty to do. Those arms of Polton’s have got to be taken out of the moulds and worked. It will be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”
“I suppose it will,” she agreed; and then, as we turned a corner and came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed: “Why, what on earth is this? There are some painters at work on the studio! I wonder who sent them. I haven’t given any orders. There must be some extraordinary mistake.”
There was not, however. As we came up, one of the two linen-coated operators advanced, brush in hand, to meet us, and briefly explained that he and his mate had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to wash down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises opposite. They were, in fact, “plain-clothes” men on special duty.
“We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend informed us, as we made a pretence of examining the window-sashes, “and we took over from a man who had been watching the house all night. My nabs is there all right. He came home early yesterday evening, and he hasn’t come out since.”
“Then you know the man by sight?” Marion asked eagerly.
“Well, Miss,” was the reply, “we have a description of him, and the man who went into the house seemed to agree with it; and, as far as we know, there isn’t any other man living there. But I understand that we are relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I have a look at the inside woodwork?”
Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed by the detective, whose interest seemed to be concerned exclusively with the woodwork of windows; and from windows in general finally became concentrated on a small window in the lobby which commanded a view of the houses opposite. Having examined the sashes of this, with his eye cocked on one of the houses aforesaid, he proceeded to operate on it with his brush, which, being wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of care, soon covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. Then he cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and, whipping out a prism binocular from under his apron, stood back a couple of feet and took a leisurely survey through the narrow opening of one of the opposite houses.
“Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the first-floor window. Just have a look at her, sir. She can’t see us through this narrow crack.”
He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I put the instrument to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, and seemed to bring the window and the figure of the woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the moment she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to someone inside the room, and all that I could see was that she seemed to be an elderly woman who wore what looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap. Suddenly she turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me a perfectly clear view of her face, and then I felt myself lapsing into the old sense of confusion and bewilderment.
I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. But this was evidently not she, although not such a very different-looking woman: an elderly, white-haired widow in a crape cap and spectacles—reading spectacles they
