Barr Robert
The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont
'What!' she cried, stopping short, that little wrinkle which betokened temper appearing on her brow. 'Do you think we won't get the emeralds then?'
'Oh, I am sure we will get the emeralds. I, Valmont, pledge you my word. But if Mr. Jonas Carter before marriage calls a halt upon the ceremony until your uncle places fifty thousand pounds upon the table, I confess I am very pessimistic about your obtaining control of the million afterwards.'
All her vivacity instantaneously returned.
'Pooh!' she cried, dancing round in front of me, and standing there directly in my path, so that I came to a stand. 'Pooh!' she repeated, snapping her fingers, with an inimitable gesture of that lovely hand. 'Monsieur Valmont, I am disappointed in you. You are not nearly so nice as you were last evening. It is very uncomplimentary in you to intimate that when once I am married to Mr. Jonas I shall not wheedle from him all the money I want. Do not rest your eyes on the ground; look at me and answer!'
I glanced up at her, and could not forbear laughing. The witchery of the wood was in that girl; yes, and a perceptible trace of the Gallic devil flickered in those enchanting eyes of hers. I could not help myself.
'Ah, Madame la Marquise de Bellairs, how jauntily you would scatter despair in that susceptible Court of Louis!'
'Ah, Monsieur Eugène de Valmont,' she cried, mimicking my tones, and imitating my manner with an exactitude that amazed me, 'you are once more my dear de Valmont of last night. I dreamed of you, I assure you I did, and now to find you in the morning, oh, so changed!' She clasped her little hands and inclined her head, while the sweet voice sank into a cadence of melancholy which seemed so genuine that the mocking ripple of a laugh immediately following was almost a shock to me. Where had this creature of the dull English countryside learnt all such frou-frou of gesture and tone?
'Have you ever seen Sarah Bernhardt?' I asked.
Now the average English woman would have inquired the genesis of so inconsequent a question, but Lady Alicia followed the trend of my thought, and answered at once as if my query had been quite expected:—
'Mais non, monsieur. Sarah the Divine! Ah, she comes with my million a year and the house of Hyde Park. No, the only inhabitant of my real world whom I have yet seen is Monsieur Valmont, and he, alas! I find so changeable. But now, adieu frivolity, we must be serious,' and she walked sedately by my side.
'Do you know where you are going, monsieur? You are going to church. Oh, do not look frightened, not to a service. I am decorating the church with holly, and you shall help me and get thorns in your poor fingers.'
The private road, which up to this time had passed through a forest, now reached a secluded glade in which stood a very small, but exquisite, church, evidently centuries older than the mansion we had left. Beyond it were gray stone ruins, which Lady Alicia pointed out to me as remnants of the original mansion that had been built in the reign of the second Henry. The church, it was thought, formed the private chapel to the hall, and it had been kept in repair by the various lords of the manor.
'Now hearken to the power of the poor, and learn how they may flout the proud marquis,' cried Lady Alicia gleefully; 'the poorest man in England may walk along this private road on Sunday to the church, and the proud marquis is powerless to prevent him. Of course, if the poor man prolongs his walk then is he in danger from the law of trespass. On weekdays, however, this is the most secluded spot on the estate, and I regret to say that my lordly uncle does not trouble it even on Sundays. I fear we are a degenerate race, Monsieur Valmont, for doubtless a fighting and deeply religious ancestor of mine built this church, and to think that when the useful masons cemented those stones together, Madame la Marquise de Bellairs or Lady Alicia were alike unthought of, and though three hundred years divide them this ancient chapel makes them seem, as one might say, contemporaries. Oh, Monsieur Valmont, what is the use of worrying about emeralds or anything else? As I look at this beautiful old church, even the house of Hyde Park appears as naught,' and to my amazement, the eyes that Lady Alicia turned upon me were wet.
The front door was unlocked, and we walked into the church in silence. Around the pillars holly and ivy were twined. Great armfuls of the shrubs had been flung here and there along the walls in heaps, and a step-ladder stood in one of the aisles, showing that the decoration of the edifice was not yet complete. A subdued melancholy had settled down on my erstwhile vivacious companion, the inevitable reaction so characteristic of the artistic temperament, augmented doubtless by the solemnity of the place, around whose walls in brass and marble were sculptured memorials of her ancient race.
'You promised,' I said at last, 'to tell me how you came to suspect—'
'Not here, not here,' she whispered; then rising from the pew in which she had seated herself, she said:—
'Let us go, I am in no mood for working this morning. I shall finish the decoration in the afternoon.'
We came out into the cool and brilliant sunlight again, and as we turned homeward, her spirits immediately began to rise.
'I am anxious to know,' I persisted, 'why you came to suspect a man whom at first you believed innocent.'
'I am not sure but I believe him innocent now, although I am forced to the conclusion that he knows where the treasure is.'
'What forces you to that conclusion, my lady?'
'A letter I received from himself, in which he makes a proposal so extraordinary that I am almost disinclined to accede to it, even though it leads to the discovery of my necklace. However, I am determined to leave no means untried if I receive the support of my friend, Monsieur Valmont.'
'My lady,' said I, with a bow, 'it is but yours to command, mine to obey. What were the contents of that letter?'
'Read it,' she replied, taking the folded sheet from her pocket, and handing it to me.
She had been quite right in characterising the note as an extraordinary epistle. The Honourable John Haddon had the temerity to propose that she should go through a form of marriage with him in the old church we had just left. If she did that, he said, it would console him for the mad love he felt for her. The ceremony would have no binding force upon her whatever, and she might bring whom she pleased to perform it. If she knew no one that she could trust, he would invite an old college chum, and bring him to the church next morning at half-past seven o'clock. Even if an ordained clergyman performed the ceremony, it would not be legal unless it took place between the hours of eight in the morning, and three in the afternoon. If she consented to this, the emeralds were hers once more.
'This is the proposal of a madman,' said I, as I handed back the letter.
'Well,' she replied, with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, 'he has always said he was madly in love with me, and I quite believe it. Poor young man, if this mummery were to console him for the rest of his life, why should I not indulge him in it?'
'Lady Alicia, surely you would not countenance the profaning of that lovely old edifice with a mock ceremonial? No man in his senses could suggest such a thing!'
Once more her eyes were twinkling with merriment.
'But the Honourable John Haddon, as I have told you, is not in his senses.'
'Then why should you indulge him?'
'Why? How can you ask such a question? Because of the emeralds. It is only a mad lark, after all, and no one need know of it. Oh, Monsieur Valmont,' she cried pleadingly, clasping her hands, and yet it seemed to me with an undercurrent of laughter in her beseeching tones, 'will you not enact for us the part of clergyman? I am sure if your face were as serious as it is at this moment, the robes of a priest would become you.'
'Lady Alicia, you are incorrigible. I am somewhat of a man of the world, yet I should not dare to counterfeit the sacred office, and I hope you but jest. In fact, I am sure you do, my lady.'
She turned away from me with a very pretty pout.
'Monsieur Valmont, your knighthood is, after all, but surface deep. 'Tis not mine to command, and yours to obey. Certainly I did but jest. John shall bring his own imitation clergyman with him.'
'Are you going to meet him tomorrow?'
'Certainly I am. I have promised. I must secure my necklace.'
'You seem to place great confidence in the belief that he will produce it.'
'If he fails to do so, then I play Monsieur Valmont as my trump card. But, monsieur, although you quite rightly refuse to comply with my first request, you will surely not reject my second. Please meet me tomorrow at the head of the avenue, promptly at a quarter-past seven, and escort me to the church.'
For a moment the negative trembled on my tongue's end, but she turned those enchanting eyes upon me, and I was undone.
'Very well,' I answered.
She seized both my hands, like a little girl overjoyed at a promised excursion.
'Oh, Monsieur Valmont, you are a darling! I feel as if I'd known you all my life. I am sure you will never regret having humoured me,' then added a moment later, 'if we get the emeralds.'
'Ah,' said I, 'if we get the emeralds.'
We were now within sight of the house, and she pointed out our rendezvous for the following day, and with that I bade her good-bye.
It was shortly after seven o'clock next morning when I reached the meeting-place. The Lady Alicia was somewhat long in coming, but when she arrived her face was aglow with girlish delight at the solemn prank she was about to play.
'You have not changed your mind?' I asked, after the morning's greetings.
'Oh, no, Monsieur Valmont,' she replied, with a bright laugh. 'I am determined to recover those emeralds.'
'We must hurry, Lady Alicia, or we will be too late.'
'There is plenty of time,' she remarked calmly; and she proved to be right, because when we came in sight of the church, the clock pointed to the hour of half-past seven.
'Now,' she said 'I shall wait here until you steal up to the church and look in through one of the windows that do not contain stained glass. I should not for the world arrive before Mr. Haddon and his friend are there.'
I did as requested, and saw two young men standing together in the centre aisle, one in the full robes of a clergyman, the other in his ordinary dress, whom I took to be the Honourable John Haddon. His profile was toward me, and I must admit there was very little of the madman in his calm countenance. His was a well-cut face, clean shaven, and strikingly manly. In one of the pews was seated a woman—I learned afterwards she was Lady Alicia's maid, who had been instructed to come and go from the house by a footpath, while we had taken the longer road. I returned and escorted Lady Alicia to the church, and there was introduced to Mr. Haddon and his friend, the made-up divine. The ceremony was at once performed, and, man of the world as I professed myself to be, this enacting of private theatricals in a church grated upon me. When the maid and I were asked to sign the book as witnesses, I said:—
'Surely this is carrying realism a little too far?'
Mr. Haddon smiled, and replied:—
'I am amazed to hear a Frenchman objecting to realism going to its full length, and speaking for myself, I should be delighted to see the autograph of the renowned Eugène Valmont,' and with that he proffered me the pen, whereupon I scrawled my signature. The maid had already signed, and disappeared. The reputed clergyman bowed us out of the church, standing in the porch to see us walk up the avenue.
'Ed,' cried John Haddon, I'll be back within half an hour, and we'll attend to the clock. You won't mind waiting?'
'Not in the least, dear boy. God bless you both,' and the tremor in his voice seemed to me carrying realism one step further still.
The Lady Alicia, with downcast head, hurried us on until we were within the gloom of the forest, and then, ignoring me, she turned suddenly to the young man, and placed her two hands on his shoulders.
'Oh, Jack, Jack!' she cried.
He kissed her twice on the lips.
'Jack, Monsieur Valmont insists on the emeralds.'
The young man laughed. Her ladyship stood fronting him with her back towards me. Tenderly the young man unfastened something at the throat of that high-necked dress of hers, then there was a snap, and he drew out an amazing, dazzling, shimmering sheen of green, that seemed to turn the whole bleak December landscape verdant as with a touch of spring. The girl hid her rosy face against him, and over her shoulder, with a smile, he handed me the celebrated Blair emeralds.
'There is the treasure, Valmont,' he cried, 'on condition that you do not molest the culprit.'
'Or the accessory after the fact,' gurgled Lady Alicia in smothered tones, with a hand clasping together her high-necked dress at the throat.
'We trust to your invention, Valmont, to deliver that necklace to uncle with a detective story that will thrill him to his very heart.'
We heard the clock strike eight; then a second later smaller bells chimed a quarter-past, and another second after they tinkled the half-hour. 'Hallo!' cried Haddon, 'Ed has attended to the clock himself. What a good fellow he is.'
'I looked at my watch; it was twenty-five minutes to nine.
'Was the ceremony genuine then?' I asked.
'Ah, Valmont,' said the young man, patting his wife affectionately on the shoulder, 'nothing on earth can be more genuine than that ceremony was.'
And the volatile Lady Alicia snuggled closer to him.
APPENDIX: TWO SHERLOCK HOLMES PARODIES
1. The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs
(With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and his excellent book, 'A Study in Scarlet'.)
I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogising the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.
'I have come,' I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, 'to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery.'
'I haven't heard of it,' he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon.
'The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard.'
'I can well believe it,' said my friend, calmly. 'Perpetual motion, or squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory.'
This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterises so many other men.
He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated armchair, placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.
'Tell me about it,' he said simply.
'Old Barrie Kipson,' I began, 'was a stockbroker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to—'
'COME IN!' shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.
'Excuse me,' said my friend, laughing, 'my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line.'
'Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,' I said, rising.
'Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming.'
I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.
'I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognised my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always—Come in!
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.
'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.
'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.
'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'
'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'
'Then how in the world—'
'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him.'
'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.
'Yes,' drawled Kombs, 'it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you? as we say in France.'
When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. 'Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?'
'I rarely talk about these things,' said Kombs with great composure. 'But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two sub-classes, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the streets for half-an-hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff. That the author is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation.'
'Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.'
A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.
'Do you mean to insult me, sir?'
'I do not—I—I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow –. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.'
'Then heaven help you,' cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
I sprang between them.
'Don't shoot!' I cried. 'You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!'
'Perhaps you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy—
'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr Wilber Scribbings?'
The journalist started.
'How do you know my name?' he gasped.
Kombs waved his hand impatiently.
'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'
I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.
'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery—'
'Tush,' cried the detective; 'do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?'
'The Pegram—ah—case has baffled everyone. The Evening Blade wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?'
'Possibly. Tell me about the case.'
'I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew something like £300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery.'
'And where is the mystery, might I ask?'
'There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in the two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired.'
'Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between London and Brewster?'
'Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram.'
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.
'I presume you wish the solution in time for tomorrow's paper?'
'Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well.'
'My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here tomorrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case. Good afternoon, sir.'
Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand.
Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing.
Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. 'I do not wish to seem to be rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out tonight on the Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?'
'Bless me!' I cried, glancing at the clock, 'you haven't time, it is after five now.'
'Ample time, Whatson—ample,' he murmured, without changing his position. 'I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing-gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad of your company.'
I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was most interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we drove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus I noticed a look of annoyance pass over his face.
'We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time,' he remarked, looking at the big clock. 'I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur.'
The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. The detective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder.
'You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?'
'Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir.'
'Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?'
'Well, yes, sir, it is,' replied the guard, lowering his voice, 'but of course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn't travel in it, else, sir.'
'Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment in which the body was found?'
'A lady and gentleman, sir; I put 'em in myself, sir.'
'Would you further oblige me,' said the detective, deftly slipping half-a-sovereign into the hand of the guard, 'by going to the window and informing them in an offhand casual sort of way that the tragedy took place in that compartment?'
'Certainly, sir.'
We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We entered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said:
'We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster.'
'I'll see to that, sir,' answered the guard, locking the door.
When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.
'Nothing,' was his brief reply.
'Then why do you come?'
'Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at.'
'And might I ask what those conclusions are?'
'Certainly,' replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his voice. 'I beg to call your attention, first, to the fact that this train stands between two platforms, and can be entered from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started.'
'But the door on this side is locked,' I objected, trying it.
'Of course. But every season ticket-holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. The patient's temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has a fever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to three-quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because you are a doctor.'
I admitted such was the case.
'Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescent's mind turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie Kipson's friends did not watch him. You remember the 21st, of course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under foot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified, if possible, but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets something.'
'But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?'
'The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect of a night ride on the Scotch express, and the view from the windows of the train as it passes through the northern part of London is particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation.'
'What became of the weapon?'
'That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment.'
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.
'Just as I expected,' he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me. 'There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of such a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The only question that now remains is where the deed was committed, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple to even need explanation.'
'Great heavens, Sherlaw!' I cried. 'How can you call that simple? It seems to me impossible to compute.'
We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective leaned back with every sign of ennui, closing his eyes. At last he spoke wearily:
'It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to work out the ABC of detection for yourself, although I shall never object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables. Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the screech of the air-brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop as near the signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At three times the length of this train from the signal-post towards London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in the middle, you will find the pistol.'
