“All the evidence goes to show, very conclusively, that Wampole carried out this robbery single-handed. Of that I, personally, have no doubt; and I think the superintendent agrees with me.”
“Undoubtedly,” Miller assented. “I, too, am perfectly convinced that our late lamented friend played a lone hand. You are thinking of John Osmond?”
“Yes,” Hepburn admitted, with a frown of perplexity. “I am. I am wondering what on earth can have induced him to go off in that extraordinary manner and at that particular time.”
“So am I,” said Thorndyke.
“Well, I’m afraid we shall never learn now,” said Woodstock.
“Apparently not,” Thorndyke agreed; “and yet—who knows?”
CHAPTER XIX
Thorndyke Connects the Links
Early in the afternoon—at forty minutes past twelve, to be exact—of a sunny day in late spring, a tall, hatchet-faced man, accompanied by a small, sprightly lady, strolled at a leisurely pace through Pump Court and presently emerged into the cloisters, where he and his companion halted and looked about them.
“What a lovely old place it is!” the latter exclaimed, letting her eyes travel appreciatively from the porch of the Temple Church to the façade of Lamb Buildings. “Wouldn’t you like to live here, Jack?”
“I should,” he replied. “It is delightful to look at whichever way you turn; and there is such a delicious atmosphere of peace and quiet.”
She laughed merrily. “Peace and quiet!” she repeated. “Peace, perfect peace. That has always been the desire of your heart, hasn’t it? Oh, you old hum bug! Before you had been here a month you would be howling for the sea and someone to fight.” Here her glance lighted on the little wig shop, tucked away in its shady corner, and she drew him eagerly towards it “Let us have a look at these wigs,” said she. “I love wigs. It is a pity they have gone out of fashion for general use. They were such a let-off for bald-headed men. Which one do you like best, Jack? I rather fancy that big one—full-bottomed, I think, is its proper description. It would suit you to a T. It looks a little vacant with no face inside it, but it would have a grand appearance with your old nose sticking out in front. You’d look like the Great Sphinx before they knocked his nose off. Don’t you think you’d look rather well in it?”
“I don’t know that I am particularly keen on wigs,” he replied.
“Unless they are on the green,” she suggested with a roguish smile.
He smiled at her in return, with a surprising softening of the rather rugged face, and then glanced at his watch.
“We mustn’t loiter here staring at these ridiculous wigs,” said he; “or we shall be late. Come along, you little babbler.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she responded; “come along, it is,” and they resumed their leisurely progress eastward across the court.
“I wonder,” he said, reflectively, “what sort of fellow Thorndyke is. Moderately human, I hope, be cause I want him to understand what I feel about all that he has done for us.”
“I shall want to kiss him,” said she.
“You had better not,” he said, threateningly. “Still, short of that, I shall look to you to let him know how grateful, beyond all words, we are to him.”
“You can trust me, Jack, darling,” she replied, “to make it as clear as I can. When I think of it, I feel like crying. We owe him everything. He is our fairy-godmother.”
“I don’t think, Betty, dear,” said Osmond with a faint grin, “that I should put it to him in exactly those words.”
“I wasn’t going to, you old guffin!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “But it is what I feel. He is a magician. A touch of his magic wand changed us in a moment from a pair of miserable, hopeless wretches into the pet children of Fortune, rich in everything we desired, and with the whole world of happiness at our feet. Oh, the wonder of it! Just think, darling! While you, with that ridiculous bee in your silly old bonnet, were doing everything that you could to make yourself—and me—miserable for life, here was this dry old lawyer, whose very existence we were unaware of, quietly, methodically working away to dig us out of our own entanglements. We can never even thank him properly.”
“No. That’s a fact,” Osmond agreed. “And, in spite of Penfield’s explanations, I can’t in the least understand how he did it.”
“Mr. Penfield admits that he has only a glimmering of an idea himself; but as he has promised to extract a full explanation today, we can afford to bottle up our curiosity a little longer. This seems to be the house; yes, here we are: ‘1st Pair, Dr. John Thorndyke.’”
She tripped up the stairs, followed by Osmond, and on the landing was confronted by the open ‘oak’ and a closed inner door, adorned by a small but brilliantly burnished brass knocker.
“What a dinkie little knocker!” she exclaimed; and forthwith executed upon it a most impressive flourish. Almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, dignified man who greeted the visitors with a smile of quiet geniality.
“I have no need to ask who you are,” he said, as, having saluted the lady, he shook hands with Osmond. “Your resemblance to your mother is quite remarkable.”
“Yes,” replied Osmond, a little mystified, nevertheless. “I was always considered to be very like her. I should like to think that the likeness is not only a superficial one.”
Here he became aware of Mr. Penfield, who had risen from an arm-chair and was advancing, snuff-box in hand, to greet them.
“It is very delightful to meet you both in these chambers,” said he, with an old bow. “A most interesting and significant meeting. Your husband’s name has often been spoken here, Mrs. Osmond, in the days when he was, to us, a mere abstraction of mystery.”
“I’ve no doubt it has,” said Betty, regarding the old lawyer with a mischievous smile, “and I don’t suppose it was spoken of in very complimentary terms. But we are both absolutely bursting with gratitude and we don’t know how to put our feelings into words.”
“There is no occasion for gratitude,” said Thorndyke. “It has been a mutual change of benefits. Your husband has provided us with a problem of the most thrilling interest, which we have had the satisfaction of solving, with the added pleasure of being of some service to you. We are really your debtors.”
“Very kind of you to put it in that way,” said Osmond, with a faint grin. “I seem to have played a sort of Falstaffian part. My deficiency of wit has been the occasion of wit in others.”
“Well, Mr. Osmond,” Thorndyke rejoined, with an appreciative side-glance at the smiling Betty, “you seem to have had wit enough to bring your affairs to a very happy conclusion. But let us draw up to the table. I understand that there are to be mutual explanations presently, so we had better fortify ourselves with nourishment.”
He pressed an electric bell, and, as his guests took their places at the table, the door opened silently and Polton entered with demure gravity to post himself behind Thorndyke’s chair and generally to supervise the proceedings.
Conversation
