walking illustration of the folly of underrating the intelligence of one’s adversary.”
At Clifford’s Inn Passage we dismissed the cab, and, retiring into the shadow of the dark, narrow alley, kept an eye on the gate of Inner Temple Lane. In about twenty minutes we observed our friend approaching on the south side of Fleet Street. He halted at the gate, plied the knocker, and after a brief parley with the night-porter vanished through the wicket. We waited yet five minutes more, and then, having given him time to get clear of the entrance, we crossed the road.
The porter looked at us with some surprise.
“There’s a gentleman just gone down to your chambers, sir,” said he. “He told me you were expecting him.”
“Quite right,” said Thorndyke, with a dry smile, “I was. Good-night.”
We slunk down the lane, past the church, and through the gloomy cloisters, giving a wide berth to all lamps and lighted entries, until, emerging into Paper Buildings, we crossed at the darkest part to King’s Bench Walk, where Thorndyke made straight for the chambers of our friend Anstey, which were two doors above our own.
“Why are we coming here?” I asked, as we ascended the stairs.
But the question needed no answer when we reached the landing, for through the open door of our friend’s chambers I could see in the darkened room Anstey himself with two uniformed constables and a couple of plain-clothes men.
“There has been no signal yet, sir,” said one of the latter, whom I recognized as a detective-sergeant of our division.
“No,” said Thorndyke, “but the M.C. has arrived. He came in five minutes before us.”
“Then,” exclaimed Anstey, “the ball will open shortly, ladies and gents. The boards are waxed, the fiddlers are tuning up, and—”
“Not quite so loud, if you please, sir,” said the sergeant. “I think there is somebody coming up Crown Office Row.”
The ball had, in fact, opened. As we peered cautiously out of the open window, keeping well back in the darkened room, a stealthy figure crept out of the shadow, crossed the road, and stole noiselessly into the entry of Thorndyke’s chambers. It was quickly followed by a second figure, and then by a third, in which I recognized our elusive client.
“Now listen for the signal,” said Thorndyke. “They won’t waste time. Confound that clock!”
The soft-voiced bell of the Inner Temple clock, mingling with the harsher tones of St. Dunstan’s and the Law Courts, slowly told out the hour of midnight; and as the last reverberations were dying away, some metallic object, apparently a coin, dropped with a sharp clink on to the pavement under our window.
At the sound the watchers simultaneously sprang to their feet.
“You two go first,” said the sergeant, addressing the uniformed men, who thereupon stole noiselessly, in their rubber-soled boots, down the stone stairs and along the pavement. The rest of us followed, with less attention to silence, and as we ran up to Thorndyke’s chambers, we were aware of quick but stealthy footsteps on the stairs above.
“They’ve been at work, you see,” whispered one of the constables, flashing his lantern on to the iron-bound outer door of our sitting-room, on which the marks of a large jemmy were plainly visible.
The sergeant nodded grimly, and, bidding the constables to remain on the landing, led the way upwards.
As we ascended, faint rustlings continued to be audible from above, and on the second-floor landing we met a man descending briskly, but without hurry, from the third. It was Mr. Barton, and I could not but admire the composure with which he passed the two detectives. But suddenly his glance fell on Thorndyke, and his composure vanished. With a wild stare of incredulous horror, he halted as if petrified; then he broke away and raced furiously down the stairs, and a moment later a muffled shout and the sound of a scuffle told us that he had received a check. On the next flight we met two more men, who, more hurried and less self-possessed, endeavoured to push past; but the sergeant barred the way.
“Why, bless me!” exclaimed the latter, “it’s Moakey; and isn’t that Tom Harris?”
“It’s all right, sergeant,” said Moakey plaintively, striving to escape from the officer’s grip. “We’ve come to the wrong house, that’s all.”
The sergeant smiled indulgently. “I know,” he replied. “But you’re always coming to the wrong house, Moakey; and now you’re just coming along with me to the right house.”
He slipped his hand inside his captive’s coat, and adroitly fished out a large, folding jemmy; whereupon the discomforted burglar abandoned all further protest.
On our return to the first-floor, we found Mr. Barton sulkily awaiting us, handcuffed to one of the constables, and watched by Polton with pensive disapproval.
“I needn’t trouble you tonight, Doctor,” said the sergeant, as he marshalled his little troop of captors and captives. “You’ll hear from us in the morning. Good-night, sir.”
The melancholy procession moved off down the stairs, and we retired into our chambers with Anstey to smoke a last pipe.
“A capable man, that Barton,” observed Thorndyke—“ready, plausible, and ingenious, but spoilt by prolonged contact with fools. I wonder if the police will perceive the significance of this little affair.”
“They will be more acute than I am if they do,” said I.
“Naturally,” interposed Anstey, who loved to “cheek” his revered senior, “because there isn’t any. It’s only Thorndyke’s bounce. He is really in a deuce of a fog himself.”
However this may have been, the police were a good deal puzzled by the incident, for, on the following morning, we received a visit from no less a person than Superintendent Miller, of Scotland Yard.
“This is a queer business,” said he, coming to the point at once—“this burglary, I mean. Why should they want to crack your place, right here in the Temple, too? You’ve got nothing of value here, have you? No ‘hard stuff,’ as they call it, for instance?”
“Not so much as a silver teaspoon,” replied Thorndyke, who had a conscientious objection to plate of all kinds.
“It’s odd,” said the superintendent, “deuced odd. When we got your note, we thought these anarchist idiots had mixed you up with the case—you saw the papers, I suppose—and wanted to go through your rooms for some reason. We thought we had our hands on the gang, instead of which we find a party of common crooks that we’re sick of the sight of. I tell you, sir, it’s annoying when you think you’ve hooked a salmon, to bring up a blooming eel.”
“It must be a great disappointment,” Thorndyke agreed, suppressing a smile.
“It is,” said the detective. “Not but what we’re glad enough to get these beggars, especially Halkett, or Barton, as he calls himself—a mighty slippery customer is Halkett, and mischievous, too—but we’re not wanting any disappointments just now. There was that big jewel job in Piccadilly, Taplin and Horne’s; I don’t mind telling you that we’ve not got the ghost of a clue. Then there’s this anarchist affair. We’re all in the dark there, too.”
“But
