Dr. Priestley, although he was known by name to a very large circle of newspaper readers, who were periodically entertained by one or other of his thrusts at some pet nostrum of the moment, such as the craze for brown bread or the discovery of vitamines, rarely or never appeared in public. He had even escaped the doubtful honour of having his photograph reproduced in the evening papers, though this perhaps was a disadvantage, since it would certainly have been unrecognizable. He was therefore in no sense a public figure, in that he was most unlikely to be distinguished from the ordinary crowd of travelling humanity. He sat in the train without any attempt at disguise, studying an ordnance map which he had laid open upon his knees.
It was still early when he reached Corfe Castle. The village, with its commanding ruin perched upon the summit of a conical hill, was in full flood of its morning activity. Dr. Priestley, standing at the station gate, watched the passersby for a moment with keen interest. Not one of them paid him the compliment of more than a fleeting and incurious glance.
He walked towards the heart of the village, and entered the first inn he came to. Having ascertained that he could have a single room for as long as he liked, he announced his determination of spending a few days, and was finally shown into a comfortable room with a view of the Castle. Here he remained until lunch.
The Professor lunched with keen enjoyment. His adventure was giving him an appetite. In spite of the amount of travelling which he had done during the last couple of days he felt thoroughly fit and well, much better than he had during the winter in town. The menace which had been revealed to him seemed far away to him in this peaceful spot, it almost seemed to him as though the whole of his discoveries had been merely some impossible dream, the penalty of overwork, and that the fresh country air, tinged with the faintly salt tang of the sea, had swept it from his brain into the realms of the unreal. Perhaps, after all, he was entirely wrong in his deductions. Those mysterious murders in Praed Street might have been the result of some entirely different influence. He had merely conjecture to guide him: somehow, now he had reached the place where alone the corroborative facts could be gathered, it seemed as though his actions and his fears were the effect of a sudden and unaccountable impulse.
He wandered from the luncheon room past the little saloon bar, and glanced in at the open door. The place was empty; it was past two o’clock, and the local habitués had returned to their labours. It was too early in the year for visitors. The Professor walked into the bar, and took a seat by the side of the counter.
The proprietor, who was serving a few belated customers in the taproom, came in at the sound of the Professor’s entrance, and greeted him with professional courtesy.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Deacon,” he said cheerfully. (Deacon was the name which the Professor had inscribed in the hotel register—it said much for the proprietor’s skill that he had deciphered it correctly.) “I hope you found your room to your liking, and enjoyed your lunch?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied the Professor. “I think I shall be very comfortable here for a day or two. I looked in here to ask you for a liqueur after my lunch. Perhaps you will join me in one?”
“Liqueurs ain’t much in my line, thankee, sir,” replied the landlord. “But I’ll take a drop o’ gin with you, since you’re so kind. What’ll be yours, sir? I’ve got Benedictine, Crème de Menthe—”
“I should prefer some old brandy, if you have it,” interrupted the Professor.
“Ah, you know a thing or two, Mr. Deacon, I can see that,” replied the landlord with a knowing wink. “I’ve got a rare drop of brandy put away in the cellar. I never had only six bottles of it, and there’s still four left. My customers don’t hardly ever ask for it, it’s mostly beer or whiskey with them. Unless it happens to be a gentleman from London like yourself, sir.”
He disappeared, and returned in a few moments with a long-necked bottle, from which he poured a glass of pale amber liquid. “There, just try that, sir,” he exclaimed proudly.
The Professor picked up the glass and sampled the contents gravely. “Excellent, very excellent indeed!” he commented approvingly. “I am quite sure that my doctor would have prescribed this as part of the cure, had he known of it.”
“Cure, sir?” enquired the landlord sympathetically. “I hope the illness has not been serious?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” replied the Professor. “One could scarcely call it an illness. I have been rather run down, that is all. Men of my age have to take care of themselves, you know, and I have been devoting rather more time and energy than was perhaps wise to my business in the City. I found myself suffering from headaches and loss of appetite, so my doctor ordered me a complete rest. He said it was the only thing to set me up again.”
“Well, here’s your very good health, sir,” said the landlord, tossing off
