will take place on the strength of a marked peculiarity. The man is web-footed and – ”
“The man is what?” rapped in Cleek excitedly.
“Web-footed,” repeated Narkom. “The several toes are attached one to the other by a thin membrane, after the manner of a duck’s feet; and on the left foot there is a peculiar horny protuberance like – ”
“Like a rudimentary sixth toe!” interrupted Cleek, fairly flinging the eager query at him. “It is, eh? Well, by the Eternal! I once knew a fellow – years ago, in the Far East – whose feet were malformed like that; and if by any possibility – Stop a bit! A word more. Is that man a big fellow – broad shouldered, muscular, and about forty or forty-five years of age?”
“You’ve described him to a T, dear chap. There is, however, a certain other peculiarity which you have not mentioned, though that, of course, maybe a recent acquirement. The palm of the right hand – ”
“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” interposed Cleek, a trifle irritably. He had swung away from the window and was now walking up and down the room with short nervous steps, his chin pinched up between his thumb and forefinger, his brows knotted, and his eyes fixed upon the floor.
“Saffragam – Jaffna – Trincomalee! In all three of them – in all three!” he said, putting his running thoughts into muttered words. “And now a dead man sticks his fingers in his nostrils and talks of sapphires. Sapphires, eh? And the Saffragam district stuck thick with them as spangles on a Nautch girl’s veil. The Bareva for a ducat! The Bareva Reef or I’m a Dutchman! And Barrington-Edwards was in that with the rest. So was Peabody; so was Miles; and so, too, were Lieutenant Edgburn and the Spaniard, Juan Alvarez. Eight of them, b’gad – eight! And I was ass enough to forget, idiot enough not to catch the connection until I heard again of Jim Peabody’s web foot! But wait! Stop – there should be another marked foot if this is indeed a clue to the riddle, and so – ”
He stopped short in his restless pacing and faced round on Mr. Narkom.
“Tell me something,” he said in a sharp staccato. “The four other dead men – did any among them have an injured foot – the left or the right, I forget which – from which all toes but the big one had been torn off by a crocodile’s bite, so that in life the fellow must have limped a little when he walked? Did any of the dead men bear a mark like that?”
“No,” said Narkom. “The feet of all the others were normal in every particular.”
“Hum-m-m! That’s a bit of a setback. And I am either on the wrong track or Alvarez is still alive. What’s that? Oh, it doesn’t matter; a mere fancy of mine, that’s all. Now let us get back to our mutton, please. You were going to tell me something about the right hand of the man with the web foot. What was it?”
“The palm bore certain curious hieroglyphics traced upon it in bright purple.”
“Hieroglyphics, eh? That doesn’t look quite so promising,” said Cleek in a disappointed tone. “It is quite possible that there may be more than one web-footed man in the world, so of course – Hum-m-m! What were these hieroglyphics, Mr. Narkom? Can you describe them?”
“I can do better, my dear chap,” replied the superintendent, dipping into an inner pocket and bringing forth a brown leather case. “I took an accurate tracing of them from the dead hand this morning, and – there you are. That’s what’s on his palm, Cleek, close to the base of the forefinger running diagonally across it.”
Cleek took the slip of tracing paper and carried it to the window, for the twilight was deepening and the room was filling with shadows. In the middle of the thin, transparent sheet was traced this:
He turned it up and down, he held it to the light and studied it for a moment or two in perplexed silence, then of a sudden he faced round, and Narkom could see that his eyes were shining and that the curious one-sided smile, peculiar unto him, was looping up his cheek.
“My friend,” he said, answering the eager query in the superintendent’s look, “this is yet another vindication of Poe’s theory that things least hidden are best hidden, and that the most complex mysteries are those which are based on the simplest principles. With your permission, I’ll keep this” – tucking the tracing into his pocket – “and afterward I will go to the mortuary and inspect the original. Meantime, I will go so far as to tell you that I know the motive for these murders, I know the means, and if you will give me forty-eight hours to solve the riddle, at the end of that time I’ll know the man. I will even go farther and tell you the names of the victims; and all on the evidence of your neat little tracing. The web-footed man was one, James Peabody, a farrier, at one time attached to the Blue Cavalry at Trincomalee, Ceylon. Another was Joseph Miles, an Irishman, bitten early with the ‘wanderlust’ which takes men everywhere, and in making rolling stones of them, suffers them to gather no moss. Still another – and probably, from the tattoo mark on his arm, the first victim found – was Thomas Hart, ablebodied seaman, formerly in service on the P & O line; the remaining two were Alexander McCurdy, a Scotchman, and T. Jenkins Quegg, a Yankee. The latter, however, was a naturalized Englishman, and both were privates in her late Majesty’s army and honourably discharged.”
“Cleek, my dear fellow, are you a magician?” said Narkom, sinking into a chair, overcome.
“Oh, no, my friend, merely a man with a memory, that’s all; and I happen to remember a curious little ‘pool’ that was made up of eight men. Five of them are dead. The other three are Juan Alvarez, a Spaniard, that Lieutenant Edgburn who married and beggared the girl Captain Barrington-Edwards lost when he was disgraced, and last of all the ex-Captain Barrington-Edwards himself. Gently, gently, my friend. Don’t excite yourself. All these murders have been committed with a definite purpose in view, with a devil’s instrument, and for the devil’s own stake – riches. Those riches, Mr. Narkom, were to come in the shape of precious stones, the glorious sapphires of Ceylon. And five of the eight men who were to reap the harvest of them died mysteriously in the vicinity of Lemmingham House.”
“Cleek! My hat!” Narkom sprang up as he spoke, and then sat down again in a sort of panic. “And he – Barrington-Edwards, the man that lives there —deals in precious stones. Then that man – ”
“Gently, my friend, gently – don’t bang away at the first rabbit that bolts out of the hole – it may be a wee one and you’ll lose the buck that follows. Two men live in that house, remember; Mr. Archer Blaine is Mr. Barrington-Edwards’ heir as well as his nephew and – who knows?”
CHAPTER III
“Cinnamon! what a corroboration – what a horrible corroboration! Cleek, you knock the last prop from under me; you make certain a thing that I thought was only a woman’s wild imaginings,” said Narkom, getting up suddenly, all a-tremble with excitement. “Good heavens! to have Miss Valmond’s story corroborated in this dreadful way.”
“Miss Valmond? Who’s she? Any relation to that Miss Rose Valmond whose name one sees in the papers so frequently in connection with gifts to Catholic Orphanages and Foundling Homes?”
“The same lady,” replied Narkom. “Her charities are numberless, her life a psalm. I think she has done more good in her simple, undemonstrative way than half the guilds and missions in London. She has an independent fortune, and lives, in company with an invalid and almost imbecile mother, and a brother who is, I am told, studying for the priesthood, in a beautiful home surrounded by splendid grounds, the walls of which separate her garden from that of Lemmingham House.”
“Ah, I see. Then she is a neighbour of Barrington-Edwards?”
“Yes. From the back windows of her residence one can look into the grounds of his. That is how – Cleek!” Mr. Narkom’s voice shook with agitation – “You will remember I said, a little time back, that I would have something startling to tell you in connection with Barrington-Edwards – something that was not connected with that old army scandal? If it had not been for the high character of my informant; if it had been