The Chinaman moved his head very slightly.

"No," he answered. "Not in London--nor in England. But I knew a man named Chuh Fen ten, eleven, years ago, before I went to Bombay and entered my present service."

"Where did you know him?" asked Scarterfield.

"Two--perhaps three places," said Wing. "Singapore, Penang, perhaps Rangoon, too. I remember him."

"What was he?"

"A cook--very good cook."

"Would you be surprised to hear of his being in England three years ago?"

"Not at all. Many Chinamen come here. I myself--why not others? If Chuh Fen came here, three years ago, perhaps he came as cook on some ship trading from China or Burma. Then--go back again."

"I wonder if he did!" muttered the detective. "Still," he continued, turning to Wing, "a lot of your people when they come here, stop, don't they?"

"Many stop in this country," said Wing.

"Laundry business, eating-houses, groceries, and so on?" suggested Scarterfield. "And chiefly in the places I've mentioned, eh?--the East End of London, Liverpool, and the two big Welsh towns? Now, I want to ask you a question. This man I'm talking of, Chuh Fen, was certainly in London three years ago. Are there places and people in London where one could get to hear of him?"

"Where I could get to hear of him--yes," answered Wing.

"You say--where you could get to hear of him," remarked Scarterfield.

"Does that mean that you would get information which I shouldn't get?"

The very faintest ghost of a smile showed itself in the wrinkles about the Chinaman's eyes. He inclined his head a little, politely, and Lorrimore stepped into the arena.

"What Wing means is that being a Chinaman himself, naturally he could get news of a fellow-Chinaman from fellow-Chinamen where you, an Englishman, wouldn't get any at all!" he said with a laugh. "I dare say that if you, Mr. Scarterfield, went down Limehouse way seeking particulars about Chuh Fen, you'd be met with blank faces and stopped ears."

"That's just what I'm suggesting, doctor," answered the detective, good-humouredly. "I'll put the thing in a nutsh.e.l.l--my profound belief is that if we want to get at the bottom of these two murders we've got to go back a long way, to the _Elizabeth Robinson_ time, and that Chuh Fen is the only person I've heard of, up to now, who can throw a light on that episode. And it seems to me, to be plain about it, that Mr.

Wing there could be extremely useful."

"How?" asked Lorrimore. "He's at your service, I'm sure."

"Well, by finding out if this Chuh Fen, when he was here, three years since, made any revelations to his Chinese brethren in Limehouse or elsewhere," replied Scarterfield. "He may have known something about the brothers Quick and concerning that _Elizabeth Robinson_ affair that would help immensely. Any little thing!--a mere sc.r.a.p of information--just a bit of chance gossip--a hint--you don't know how valuable these things are. The mere germ of a clue--you know!"

"I know," said Lorrimore. He turned to his servant and addressed him in some strange tongue in which Wing at once responded: for some minutes they talked together, volubly: then Lorrimore looked round at Scarterfield.

"Wing says that if Chuh Fen was in London three years ago he can engage to find out how long he was here, whence he came and why, and where he went," he said. "I gather that there's a sort of freemasonry amongst these men--naturally, they seek each other out in strange lands, and there are places in London and the other parts to which a Chinaman resorts if he happens to land in England. This he can do for you--he's no doubt of it."

"There's another thing," said Scarterfield. "If Chuh Fen is still in England--as he may be--can he find him?"

Wing's smooth countenance, on hearing this, showed some sign of animation. Instead of replying to the detective, he again addressed his master in the foreign tongue. Lorrimore nodded and turned to Scarterfield with a slightly cynical smile.

"He says that if Chuh Fen is anywhere in England he can lay hands on him, quickly," said Lorrimore. "But--he adds that it might not be at all convenient to Chuh Fen to come into the full light of day: Chuh Fen may have reasons of his own for desiring strict privacy."

"I take you!" said Scarterfield, with a wink. "All right, doctor! If Mr. Wing can unearth Mr. Chuh Fen and that mysterious gentleman can give me a tip, I'll respect his privacy! So now--do we get at something? Do I understand that your man will help us by trying to find out some particulars of Chuh Fen, or laying hands on Chuh Fen himself? All expenses defrayed, you know," he went on, turning to Wing, "and a handsome remuneration if it leads to results. And--follow your own plans! I know you Chinamen are smart and deep at this sort of thing!"

"Leave it to him," said Lorrimore. "To him and to me. If there's news to be had of this man Chuh Fen, he'll get it."

"Then that is something done!" exclaimed Scarterfield, rubbing his hands. "Good!--I like to see even a bit of progress. But now, while I'm here, and while we're at business--and I hope this young lady doesn't find it dull business!--there's another matter. The inspector tells me there have been alarums and excursions about a certain tobacco-box which was found on Salter Quick, that Mr. Cazalette--you, sir, I think--had had various experiments in connection with it, and that the thing has been stolen. Now, I want to know all about that!--who can tell me most?"

Mr. Cazalette was sitting between Miss Raven and myself; I leaned close to him and whispered, feeling that now was the time to bring every known fact to light.

"Tell all--all--you told me just before dinner!" I urged upon him.

"Table the whole pack of cards: let us get at something--now!"

He hesitated, looking half-suspiciously from one to the other of those opposite.

"D'ye think I'd be well advised, Middlebrook?" he whispered. "Is it wise policy to show all the cards you're holding?"

"In this case, yes!" I said. "Tell everything!"

"Well," he said. "Maybe. But--it's on your advice, you'll remember, and I'm not sure this is the time, nor just the company. However--"

So, for the second time that day, Mr. Cazalette told the story of the tobacco-box and of his pocket-book, and produced his photograph. It came as a surprise to all there but myself, and I saw that Mr. Raven in particular was much perturbed by the story of the theft that morning. I knew what he was thinking--the criminal or criminals were much too close at hand. He cut in now and then with a question--but the detective listened in grim, absorbed silence.

"Now, you know, this is really about the most serious and important thing I've heard, so far," he said, when Mr. Cazalette had finished.

"Just let's sum it up. Salter Quick is murdered in a strange and lonely place. Not for his goods, for all his money and his valuables--not inconsiderable--are found on him. But the murderer was in search of something that he believed to be on Salter Quick, for he thoroughly searched his clothing, slashed its linings, turned his pockets out--and probably, no, we may safely say certainly, failed in his search. He did not get what he was after--any more than his fellow-murderer who slew Noah Quick, some hundreds of miles away from here, about the very same time, got what he was after. But now comes in Mr. Cazalette. Mr. Cazalette, inadvertently, never thinking what he was doing, draws public attention to certain marks and scratches, evidently made on purpose, in Salter Quick's tobacco-box. Do you see my point, gentlemen? The murderer hears of this and says to himself, 'That box is the thing I want!' So--he appropriates it, at the inquest! But even then, so faint and almost illegible are the marks within the lid, he doesn't find exactly what he wants. But he knows that Mr. Cazalette was going to submit his photograph to an enlarging process, which would make the marks clearer; he also knows Mr.

Cazalette's habits (a highly significant fact!) so he sets himself to steal Mr. Cazalette's pocket-book, theorizing that Mr. Cazalette probably has a copy of the enlarged photograph within it. And, this morning, while Mr. Cazalette is bathing, he gets it! Gentlemen!--what does this show? One thing as a certainty--the murderer is close at hand!"

There was a dead silence--broken at last by a querulous murmur from Mr. Cazalette himself.

"Ye may be as sure o' that, my man, as that Arthur's Seat o'erlooks Edinbro'!" he said. "I wish I was as sure o' his ident.i.ty!"

"Well, we know something that's gradually bringing us toward establishing that," remarked Scarterfield. "Let me see that photograph again, if you please."

The rest of us watched Scarterfield as he studied the thing over which Mr. Cazalette and I had exercised our brains in the half-hour before dinner. He seemed to get no more information from a long perusal of it than we had got, and he finally threw it away from him across the table, with a muttered exclamation which confessed discomfiture. Miss Raven picked up the photograph.

"Aye!" mumbled Mr. Cazalette. "Let the la.s.sie look at it! Maybe a woman's brains is more use than a man's whiles."

"Often!" said the detective. "And if Miss Raven can make anything of that----"

I saw that Miss Raven was already wishful to speak, and I hastened to encourage her by throwing a word to Scarterfield.

"You'd be infinitely obliged to her, I'm sure," I put in. "It would be a help?"

"No slight one!" said he. "There's something in that diagram.

But--what?"

Miss Raven, timid, and a little shy of concentrated attention, laid the photograph again on the table.

"Don't--don't you think there may be some explanation of this in what Salter Quick said to Mr. Middlebrook when they met on the cliffs?" she asked. "He told Mr. Middlebrook that he wanted to find a churchyard where there were graves of people named Netherfield, but he didn't know exactly where it was, though it was somewhere in this locality.

Now supposing this is a rough outline of that churchyard? These outer lines may be the wall--then these little marks may show the situation of the Netherfield graves. And that cross in the corner--perhaps there is something buried, hidden, there, which Salter Quick wanted to find?"

The detective uttered a sharp exclamation and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the photograph again.

"Good! Good!" he said. "Upon my word, I shouldn't wonder! To be sure, that may be it. What's against it?"