did. But he had trained himself to an outward solemnity of manner that

was doubtless a valuable asset in his particular class of practice, and he walked at my side in unmoved gravity, taking an occasional, quick, critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our ways he once more shook my hand warmly and delivered a little farewell speech.

“You’ve never been to see me, Gray. Haven’t had time, I suppose. But when you are free you might look me up one evening to have a smoke and a glass and talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going, you know.”

I promised to drop in before long, and he then added: “I gave you one or two tips when I saw you last. Now I’m going to give you another. Never neglect your appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself with respect and the world will respect you. No need to be a dandy. But just keep an eye on your tailor and your laundress—especially your laundress. Clean collars don’t cost much and they pay; and so does a trousers press. People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now you mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I want you to get on. So long, old chap. Look me up as soon as you can”; and without giving me the opportunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off, swinging his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words served as a reminder which caused me to pursue the remainder of my journey by way of side-streets neither too well lighted nor too much frequented.

As I let myself in with my key and closed the street door, Cornish stepped out of the dining-room.

“I thought you were lost, Gray,” said he. “Where the deuce have you been all this time?” Then, as I came into the light of the hall lamp, he exclaimed: “And what in the name of Fortune have you been up to?”

“I have had a wetting,” I explained. “I’ll tell you all about it presently.”

“Dr. Thorndyke is in the dining-room,” said he; “came in a few minutes ago to see you.” He seized me by the arm and ran me into the room, where I found Thorndyke methodically filling his pipe. He looked up as I entered and regarded me with raised eyebrows.

“Why, my dear fellow, you’ve been in the water!” he exclaimed. “But yet your clothes are not wet. What has been happening to you?”

“If you can wait a few minutes,” I replied, “while I wash and change, I will relate my adventures. But perhaps you haven’t time.”

“I want to hear all about it,” he replied, “so run along and be as quick as you can.”

I bustled up to my room, and having washed and executed a lightning change, came down to the dining-room, where I found Cornish in the act of setting out decanters and glasses.

“I’ve told Dr. Thorndyke what took you to Hoxton,” said he, “and he wants a full account of everything that happened. He is always suspicious of cremation cases, as you know from his lectures.”

“Yes, I remember his warnings,” said I. “But this was a perfectly commonplace, straightforward affair.”

“Did you go for your swim before or after the examination?” Thorndyke asked.

“Oh, after,” I replied.

“Then let us hear about the examination first,” said he.

On this I plunged into a detailed account of all that had befallen since my arrival at Market-street, to which Thorndyke listened, not only patiently, but with the closest attention, and even cross-examined me to elicit further details. Everything seemed to interest him, from the construction of the coffin to the contents of Mr. Morris’ shop. When I had finished, Cornish remarked:

“Well, it is a queer affair. I don’t understand that rope at all. Ropes don’t uncleat themselves. They may slip, but they don’t come right off the cleat. It looks more as if some mischievous fool had cast it off for a joke.”

“But there was no one there,” said I. “The shed was empty when I examined it, and there was not a soul in sight on the tow-path.”

“Could you see the shed when you were in the water?” Thorndyke asked.

“No. My head was below the level of the tow-path. But if any one had run out and made off, I must have seen him on the path when I came out. He couldn’t have got out of sight in the time. Besides, it is incredible that even a fool should play such a trick as that.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But every explanation seems incredible. The only plain fact is that it happened. It is a queer business altogether; and not the least queer feature in the case is your friend Morris. Hoxton is an unlikely place for a dealer in antiques, unless he should happen to deal in other things as well; things, I mean, of ambiguous ownership.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Cornish. “Sounds uncommonly like a fence. However, that is no business of ours.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, rising and knocking out his pipe. “And now I must be going. Do you care to walk with me to the bottom of Doughty-street, Gray?”

I assented at once, suspecting that he had something to say to me that he did not wish to say before Cornish. And so it turned out; for as soon as we were outside he said:

“What I really called about was this: it seems that we have done the police an injustice. They were more on the spot than we gave them credit for. I have learned—and this is in the strictest confidence—that they took that coin round to the British Museum for the expert’s report. Then a very curious fact came to light. That coin is not the original which was stolen. It is an electrotype in gold, made in two halves very neatly soldered together and carefully worked on the milled edge to hide the join. That is extremely important in several respects. In the first place, it suggests an explanation of the otherwise incredible circumstance that it was being carried loose in the waistcoat pocket. It had probably been recently obtained from the electrotyper. That suggests the question, is it possible that D’Arblay might have been that electrotyper? Did he ever work the electrotype process? We must ascertain whether he did.”

“There is no need,” said I. “It is known to me as a fact that he did. The little plaquettes that I took for castings are electrotypes, made by himself. He worked the process quite a lot, and was very skilful in finishing. For instance, he did a small bust of his daughter in two parts and brazed them together.”

“Then, you see, Gray,” said Thorndyke, “that advances us considerably. We now have a plausible suggestion as to the motive and a new field of investigation. Let us suppose that this man employed D’Arblay to make electrotype copies of certain unique objects with the intention of disposing of them to collectors. The originals, being stolen property, would be almost impossible to dispose of with safety, but a copy would not necessarily incriminate the owner. But when D’Arblay had made the copies, he would be a dangerous person, for he would know who had the originals. Here, to a man whom we know to be a callous murderer, would be a sufficient reason for making away with D’Arblay.”

“But do you think that D’Arblay would have undertaken such a decidedly fishy job? It seems hardly like him.”

“Why not?” demanded Thorndyke. “There was nothing suspicious about the transaction. The man who wanted the copies was the owner of the originals, and D’Arblay would not know or suspect that they were stolen.”

“That is true,” I admitted. “But you were speaking of a new field of investigation.”

“Yes. If a number of copies of different objects have been made, there is a fair chance that some of them have been disposed of. If they have, and can be traced, they will give us a start along a new line, which may bring us in sight of the man himself. Do you ever see Miss D’Arblay now?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite one of the family at Highgate. I have been there every Sunday lately.”

“Have you!” he exclaimed with a smile. “You are a pretty locum tenens. However, if you are quite at home there you can make a few discreet inquiries. Find out, if you can, whether any electros had been made recently, and if so, what they were and who was the client. Will you do that?”

I agreed readily, only too glad to take an active part in the investigation; and having by this time reached the end of Doughty-street, I took leave of Thorndyke, and made my way back to Cornish’s house.