As I went to the professor's room I framed a knotty, if unnecessary, problem out of a case upon which I was engaged; but I was not to propound it.

I was suddenly plunged into a mystery which led to one of the most curious investigations I have ever undertaken, and showed a new phase of the professor's powers.

Christopher Quarles was sitting limply in the arm-chair, but he started as I entered, and looked at me with blinking eyes, as though he did not recognize me.

Energy returned to him suddenly, and he sat up.

"Paper and pencil," he said, pointing to the writing-table. I handed him a pencil and a writing-block.

By a gesture he intimated that he wanted me to watch him.

Quarles was no draughtsman. He had told me so--quite unnecessarily, because I had often seen him make a rough sketch to ill.u.s.trate some argument, and he always had to explain what the various parts of the drawing stood for. Yet, as I watched him now, he began to draw with firm, determined fingers--a definite line here, another there, sometimes pausing for a moment as if to remember the relative position of a line or the exact curve in it.

For a time there seemed no connection between the lines, no meaning in the design.

I have seen trick artists at a music-hall draw in this way, beginning with what appeared to be the least essential parts, and then, with two or three touches, causing all the rest to fall into proper perspective and a complete picture. So it was with Quarles. Two or three quick lines, and the puzzle became a man's head and shoulders. No one could doubt that it was a portrait with certain characteristics exaggerated, not into caricature, but enough to make it impossible not to recognize the original from the picture. It was an attractive face, but set and rather tragic in expression.

Quarles did not speak. He surveyed his work for a few moments, slightly corrected the curve of the nostril, and then very swiftly drew a rope round the neck, continuing it in an uncertain line almost to the top of the paper. The sudden stoppage of the pencil give a jagged end to the line. The rope looked as if it had been broken. The effect was startling.

"Three times he has visited me," said Quarles. "First, just as the dusk was falling he stood in the window there, little more than a dark shadow against the light outside. The second time was when the lamp was lighted. I looked up suddenly, and he was standing there by the fireplace gazing at me intently. He was flesh and blood, real, not a ghost, no shape of mist trailing into my vision. An hour ago, at least it seems only an hour ago, he came again. The door opened, and he entered. He stood there just in front of me, as clearly visible in the daylight as you are, and as real. When you opened the door, I thought my visitor had come a fourth time."

"And what is the meaning of this--this broken rope?" I said, pointing to the drawing.

"Broken?" and he looked at the paper closely. "My hand stopped involuntarily. It is a good sign--encouraging--but the rope is not really broken yet. That is for us to accomplish."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that in one of His Majesty's prisons this man lies under sentence of death, that he is innocent of the crime, that he has been permitted to come to me for help."

"But----?"

Quarles sprang from his chair.

"Ah, leave questioning alone. I do not know how much time we have to prevent injustice being done. Take this drawing, Wigan, find out where the man is, work night and day to get the whole history, and then come to me. We must not lose a moment. Providence must have sent you to Chelsea this morning--another sign of encouragement."

I did not explain how I came to be there, nor say there was no foundation for encouragement in my unexpected arrival. Indeed, but for my talk with Zena that morning, I should have been inclined to argue with him. As it was, I left Chelsea only half convinced that I was not being misled by the fantastic dream of a man not in his usual state of health.

I was soon convinced of my error.

Quarles's drawing was the portrait of a real man. He was lying under sentence of death in Worcestershire, the case against him so clear that there seemed to be no doubt about his guilt. The story was a sordid one, had created no sensation, had presented no difficult problem. But, under the peculiar circ.u.mstances, it was only natural that I should work with feverish haste to learn all the details of the crime, and I intimated to the authorities that facts had come to my knowledge which threw a doubt on the justice of the sentence, and that a postponement at least of the last penalty of the law would be advisable. This advice was not the outcome of anything I discovered; it was given entirely on my faith in Christopher Quarles.

Later I told the following story to the professor and Zena in the empty room.

"Michael Hall, the condemned man, is an artist," I said. "The portrait of him, Professor, is a good one. I have seen him, and he impresses you at once as possessing the artistic temperament. Whether he has anything beyond the temperament, I cannot judge, but the fact remains that he has had little success. He is a gentleman, and there is something convincing in the manner in which he protests his innocence.

Yet I am bound to say that every circ.u.mstance points to his guilt.

Possessed of two or three hundred pounds, and an unlimited faith in himself, he married. There is one child, three years old. The money dwindled rapidly, and a year ago, to cut down expenses, he went to live at Thornfield, a village near Persh.o.r.e, in Worcestershire. At Thornfield he became acquainted with an elderly gentleman named Parrish, a bookworm, something of a recluse, and an eccentric. For no particular reason, and apparently without any foundation, Mr. Parrish had the reputation of being a rich man. Generally speaking, the inhabitants of Thornfield are humble people, and the fact that Parrish had a little old silver may have given rise to the idea of his wealth.

He does not appear to have had even a banking account.

"The old gentleman welcomed a neighbor of his own cla.s.s, and Hall was constantly in his house. That Hall should come to Thornfield and live in a tiny cottage might suggest to anyone that he was not overburdened with this world's goods, but Hall declares that Parrish had no knowledge of his circ.u.mstances. Only on one occasion was Parrish in his cottage, and money was never mentioned between them. Yet Hall was in difficulties. He p.a.w.ned several things in Persh.o.r.e--small articles of jewelry belonging to his wife--giving his name as George Cross, and an address in Persh.o.r.e. One evening--a Sunday evening--Hall was with Parrish. The housekeeper--Mrs. Ashworth, an elderly woman--the only servant living in the house, said in her evidence that Hall came at seven o'clock. The church clock struck as he came in. Her master expected him to supper. Hall says that he left at half-past nine, but Mrs. Ashworth said it was midnight when he went. She had gone to bed at nine--early hours are the rule in Thornfield--and had been asleep.

She was always a light sleeper. She was roused by the stealthy closing of the front door, and just then midnight struck. Early next morning--they rise early in Thornfield--Mrs. Ashworth came down and found her master upon the floor of his study--dead. He had been struck down with a life-preserver, which was found in the room and belonged to Hall. The housekeeper ran out into the village street, but it seems there was n.o.body about, and some twenty minutes elapsed before anyone came to whom she could give the alarm.

"Hall's arrest followed. From the first he protested his innocence, but the only point in his favor appears to be the fact that he was found at his cottage, and had not attempted to run away. Everything else seems to point to his guilt. Although he says he left Parrish's house at half-past nine, he did not arrive home until after midnight.

His wife innocently gave this information, and Hall, who had not volunteered it, explained his late return by saying that he was worried financially, and had gone for a lonely walk to think matters over. He admits that the life-preserver belonged to him. Mr. Parrish had spoken once or twice of the possibility of his being robbed, and that evening Hall had made him a present of the weapon, but had not told his wife that he was going to do so. The police discovered that two days before the murder a valuable silver salver belonging to Parrish had been p.a.w.ned in Persh.o.r.e in the name of M. Hall, and the p.a.w.nbroker's a.s.sistant identified Hall. A search among Parrish's papers after the murder resulted in the discovery of a recent will, under which all the property was left to Hall. The condemned man declared he was ignorant of this fact, but the prosecution suggested that his knowledge of it and the straits he was in for money were the motive for the crime. Except on the a.s.sumption that Hall is guilty there appears to be no motive for the murder. Nothing but this silver salver was missing."

Quarles had not interrupted me. He had listened to my narrative, his features set, his eyes closed, the whole of his mind evidently concentrated on the story. As I stopped I looked at Zena.

"I wonder the housekeeper did not look out of her bedroom window to see that it was Michael Hall who left the house," Zena said slowly.

"She slept at the back of the house," I returned.

"I had not thought of that." And then, after a pause, during which her grandfather's eyes remained fixed upon her as though he would compel her to say more, she went on: "How was it, since they are early risers in Thornfield, that Mrs. Ashworth had to wait twenty minutes before anyone came? The house isn't isolated, is it?"

"No. I understand it is in the middle of the village street."

"There may be something in that question, Wigan," said Quarles, becoming alert. "Tell me, are the house and its contents still untouched?"

"I believe so. According to Mrs. Ashworth, Mr. Parrish appears to have had only one relation living--a nephew, named Charles Eade. He lives in Birmingham, and at the trial said he knew nothing whatever about his uncle, and had not seen him for years."

"Any reason?"

"No; the family had drifted apart. I am simply stating what came out in the evidence."

"About the will," said Quarles. "Was any provision made for Mrs.

Ashworth in it?"

"No; it leaves everything to Hall, and there is a recommendation to sell the books in London, except a few which are specially mentioned as being of no value intrinsically, and which Hall is advised to read.

According to Hall, the old gentleman talked much about literature, and declared that the whole philosophy of life was contained in about a score of books. I have a copy of the list given in the will."

"Who witnessed the signature to the will?" Quarles asked.

"A lawyer in Persh.o.r.e and his clerk. This was the only business transaction the lawyer had had with Mr. Parrish, and he knew little about him."

"I think we must go to Birmingham," said Quarles. "Sometimes there is only one particular standpoint from which the real facts can be seen, and I fancy Birmingham represents that standpoint for us. I suppose you can arrange for us to have access to Mr. Parrish's house at Thornfield, Wigan?"

"I will see about that," I answered.

"Are you sure Michael Hall is not guilty?" asked Zena.

"Were he guilty I should not have seen him," answered Quarles decidedly.

"His poor wife!" said Zena.

"Pray, dear, that we may carry sunlight to her again," said the professor solemnly.

I thought that our journey to Birmingham was for the purpose of interviewing Parrish's nephew, but it was not. Quarles got a list of the leading secondhand booksellers there.

"A bookworm, Wigan, remains a bookworm to the end of his days.

Although nothing has been said about it, I warrant Mr. Parrish bought books and had them sent to Thornfield."