tree lopped. You can see the tree in the garden from this window.’
She went over to the window and I followed her; and as I passed the bench I picked up a pinch of the dust between my finger and thumb and put my hand in my pocket, where I had a pill-box that I had brought in case I should get a chance to collect a sample. As we were looking out of the window, I managed to work the lid off the pill-box and drop the pinch of dust in and slip the lid on again. Then I was happy; and as I had done all that I came to do, I thought I would rather like to clear off.”
“Why?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, sir,” said Polton in a slightly apologetic tone, “the fact is that I wasn’t very anxious to meet Mr. Wampole. It wouldn’t have been quite pleasant, under the circumstances, to present those buttons and have him thanking me and shaking my hand. I should have felt rather like Pontius Pilate.”
“Why Pontius Pilate?” asked Thorndyke.
“Wasn’t he the chap—or was it Judas Iscariot? At any rate, I had a sudden feeling that I didn’t want to hand him those buttons. So I looked up my time table and discovered that I couldn’t wait to see him. ‘But, however,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I can leave the buttons with you to give him; and I will leave my card, too, so that he can send me a line if he wants to.’ So with that I gave her the roll of buttons and nipped off to the station, just in time to catch the earlier train to town. I hope I didn’t do wrong, sir.”
“Not at all,” Thorndyke replied heartily. “I quite understand your feeling on the matter; in fact, I think I should have done the same. Shall we look at that pill-box? I didn’t expect such good fortune as to get a specimen.”
Polton produced the little box, and having opened it to make sure that the contents were intact, handed it to Thorndyke, who forthwith made a preliminary inspection of the dust with the aid of his lens.
“Yes,” he reported, “it is evidently the same dust as was in the other samples, so that aspect of the case is complete. I must compliment you, Polton, on the masterly way in which you carried out your really difficult and delicate mission. You have made a brilliant success of it. And you have been equally successful in another direction. I have just come from Lambert’s, where I had a very instructive interview. You were perfectly correct. It was Lambert who cut those dummy stones.”
“I felt sure it must be,” said Polton, “when I had been round to those other lapidaries. He seems to be the only one who specializes in cutting strass gems. But did you find out who the customer was, sir?”
“I found out who he was not,” replied Thorndyke, “and that was as far as it seemed wise to go. The rest of the inquiry—the actual identification—will be better carried out by the police. I think, if we give Mr. Lambert’s address, with certain other particulars, to Mr. Superintendent Miller, we can safely leave him to do what is necessary.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The End of the Clue
It was nearing the hour of six in the evening when five men made their appearance on the stretch of pavement on which Mr. Woodstock’s office door opened. They did not, however, arrive in a solid body, but in two groups—of two and three, respectively—which held no mutual communication, but kept within easy distance of one another. The larger group consisted of Dr. Thorndyke, Mr. Lambert, the lapidary, and a tall, powerful man of distinctly military appearance and bearing; the smaller group consisted of a uniformed inspector of the local police and Mr. Lambert’s assistant “Fred.”
“I hope our friends are punctual in coming out,” Thorndyke remarked as he stood with his two companions ostensibly inspecting the stock in a bookseller’s window. “If we have to wait about long, we are likely to attract notice. Even a bookseller’s window won’t explain our presence indefinitely.”
“No,” the tall man agreed. “But there is a good deal of traffic in this street to cover us up and prevent us from being too conspicuous. All I hope is that he will take things quietly—that is, if he is the right man. You are sure you would know him again, Mr. Lambert?”
“Perfectly sure, Superintendent,” was the confident reply. “I remember him quite well. I have a good memory for faces, and so has my man, Fred. But I tell you frankly that neither of us relishes this job.”
“I sympathize with you, Mr. Lambert,” said Thorndyke. “I don’t relish it myself. We are both martyrs to duty. Ah! Here is somebody coming out. That is Mr. Woodstock. I mustn’t let him see me.”
He turned to the shop-window, presenting his back to the street, and the solicitor walked quickly past without noticing him. A few moments later Mr. Hepburn emerged and walked away in the opposite direction, furtively observed by Fred, who, with his companion, occupied a position on the farther side of the office door. He was followed after a short interval by two young men, apparently clerks, who walked away together up the street and were narrowly inspected by Fred as they passed. Close on their heels came an older man, who emerged with an air of business and, turning towards the three watchers, approached at a brisk walk.
“That the man, Mr. Lambert?” the superintendent asked in a low, eager tone, as the newcomer drew near.
“No,” was the reply. “Not a bit like him.”
Two more men came out, at both of whom Mr. Lambert shook his head. Then came a youth of about eighteen, and after his emergence an interval of several minutes, during which no one else appeared.
“That can’t be the lot,” said the superintendent, with a glance of anxious inquiry at Thorndyke.
“It isn’t unless some of them are absent,” the latter replied. “That would be rather a disaster.”
“It would, indeed,” the superintendent replied. “What do you say, Doctor, to going in—that is, if the door isn’t locked?
“Not yet, Miller,” Thorndyke replied. “Of course we can’t wait indefinitely, but, if possible—Ah! here is someone else.”
As he spoke, an elderly man came out and stood for a few moments looking up and down the street. Then he turned and very deliberately locked the door behind him.
“That’s the man!” Lambert exclaimed. “That is Mr. Scofield.”
“You are quite sure?” demanded Miller.
“Positive,” was the reply. “I recognized him instantly,” and in confirmation, Fred was signalling with a succession of emphatic nods.
Superintendent Miller cast an interrogative glance at Thorndyke. “Your man, too?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “Mr. Wampole.”
The unconscious subject of these observations, having locked the door, slowly pocketed the key and began to walk at a leisurely pace and with a thoughtful air towards the three observers, closely followed by Fred and the inspector. Suddenly he became aware of Thorndyke; and the beginnings of a smile of recognition had appeared on his face when he caught sight of Mr. Lambert. Instantly, the smile froze; and as Superintendent Miller bore down on him with evident purpose, he halted irresolutely and cast a quick glance behind him. At the sight of Fred—whom he evidently recognized at once—and the inspector, his bewilderment changed to sheer panic, and he darted out into the road close behind a large covered van that was drawn up at the kerb.
“Look out!” roared Miller, as Wampole passed the rear of the van; but the only effect of the warning was to cause the fugitive to cast a terrified glance backward over his shoulder as he ran. And then, in an instant, came the catastrophe. An empty lorry was coming up the street at a brisk trot, but its approach had been hidden from Wampole by the van. As the unfortunate man ran out from behind the latter, still looking back, he charged straight in front of the horses. The driver uttered a yell of dismay and tugged at the reins; but the affair was over in a moment. The pole of the lorry struck Wampole at the side of the neck with the force of a battering-ram and flung him violently down on the road, where he lay motionless as the ponderous vehicle swerved