“No,” Jervis agreed, “though it makes one consider his position with more attention than one would otherwise.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Thorndyke. “A reckless gambler is a man whose conduct cannot be relied on. He is subject to vicissitudes of fortune which may force him into other kinds of wrongdoing. Many an embezzlement has been preceded by an unlucky plunge on the turf.”
“Assuming the responsibility for this disappearance to lie between Hurst and—and the Bellinghams,” said I, with an uncomfortable gulp as I mentioned the names of my friends, “to which side does the balance of probability incline?”
“To the side of Hurst, I should say, without doubt,” replied Thorndyke. “The case stands thus—on the facts presented to us: Hurst appears to have had no motive for killing the deceased (as we will call him); but the man was seen to enter the house, was never seen to leave it, and was never again seen alive. Bellingham, on the other hand, had a motive, as he had believed himself to be the principal beneficiary under the will. But the deceased was not seen at his house, and there is no evidence that he went to the house or to the neighborhood, excepting the scarab that was found there. But the evidence of the scarab is vitiated by the fact that Hurst was present when it was picked up, and that it was found on a spot over which Hurst had passed only a few minutes previously. Until Hurst is cleared, it seems to me that the presence of the scarab proves nothing against the Bellinghams.”
“Then your opinions on the case,” said I, “are based entirely on the facts that have been made public?”
“Yes, mainly. I do not necessarily accept those facts just as they are presented, and I may have certain views of my own on the case. But if I have, I do not feel in a position to discuss them. For the present, discussion has to be limited to the facts and inferences offered by the parties concerned.”
“There!” exclaimed Jervis, rising to knock his pipe out, “that is where Thorndyke has you. He lets you think you’re in the thick of the ‘know’ until one fine morning you wake up and discover that you have only been a gaping outsider; and then you are mightily astonished—and so are the other side, too, for that matter. But we must really be off now, mustn’t we, reverend senior?”
“I suppose we must,” replied Thorndyke; and, as he drew on his gloves, he asked: “Have you heard from Barnard lately?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “I wrote to him at Smyrna to say that the practise was flourishing and that I was quite happy and contented, and that he might stay away as long as he liked. He writes by return that he will prolong his holiday if an opportunity offers, but will let me know later.”
“Gad,” said Jervis, “it was a stroke of luck for Barnard that Bellingham happened to have such a magnificent daughter—there! don’t mind me, old man. You go in and win—she’s worth it, isn’t she, Thorndyke?”
“Miss Bellingham’s a very charming young lady,” replied Thorndyke. “I am most favorably impressed by both the father and the daughter, and I only trust that we may be able to be of some service to them.” With this sedate little speech Thorndyke shook my hand, and I watched my two friends go on their way until their fading shapes were swallowed up in the darkness of Fetter Lane.
XII
A Voyage of Discovery
It was two or three mornings after my little supper party that, as I stood in the consulting-room brushing my hat preparatory to starting on my morning round, Adolphus appeared at the door to announce two gentlemen waiting in the surgery. I told him to bring them in, and a moment later Thorndyke entered, accompanied by Jervis. I noted that they looked uncommonly large in that little apartment, especially Thorndyke, but I had no time to consider this phenomenon, for the latter, when he had shaken my hand, proceeded at once to explain the object of their visit.
“We have come to ask a favor, Berkeley,” he said; “to ask you to do us a very great service in the interests of your friends the Bellinghams.”
“You know I shall be delighted,” I said warmly. “What is it?”
“I will explain. You know—or perhaps you don’t—that the police have collected all the bones that have been discovered and deposited them in the mortuary at Woodford, where they are to be viewed by the coroner’s jury. Now, it has become imperative that I should have more definite and reliable information than I can get from the newspapers. The natural thing for me would be to go down and examine them myself, but there are circumstances that make it very desirable that my connection with the case should not leak out. Consequently, I can’t go myself, and, for the same reason, I can’t send Jervis. On the other hand, as it is now stated pretty openly that the police consider the bones to be almost certainly those of John Bellingham, it would seem perfectly natural that you, as Godfrey Bellingham’s doctor, should go down to view them on his behalf.”
“I should like to,” I said. “I would give anything to go; but how is it to be managed? It would mean a whole day off and leaving the practise to look after itself.”
“I think it could be managed,” said Thorndyke; “and the matter is really important for two reasons. One is that the inquest opens tomorrow, and someone certainly ought to be there to watch the proceedings on Godfrey’s behalf; and the other is that our client has received notice from Hurst’s solicitors that the application will be heard in the Probate Court in a few days.”
“Isn’t that rather sudden?” I asked.
“It certainly suggests that there has been a good deal more activity than we
