they've got to the bottom of this affair. Why, they don't know what they're talking about."
"You don't think it's suicide?" asked Sergeant Spills, crisply, rather nettled at the poor opinion Mr. Fanks entertained of the Jarlchester brains.
"No, I don't," retorted the detective, coolly; "but I think it's a murder, and an uncommonly clever murder, too."
"But your reasons?" demanded Spills, with wooden severity.
"Ah, my reasons," replied Mr. Fanks, reflectively. "Well, yes! I've got my reasons, but they wouldn't be intelligible to you."
Extracts From a Detective's Note-Book
"A curious case, this Jarlchester Mystery—I must confess myself puzzled … From Drewey's evidence deceased died of morphia … Pills only contain arsenic … can't be any connection between the death and those pills … Can't find out where deceased purchased morphia … Perhaps Coroner right, and he brought it from London … Examined clothes of deceased … well made … fashionable … shabby … Qy., seedy swell? … such a one might commit suicide … Doubtful as to nerve …
" … Don't understand that open door … ajar … nervous man wouldn't sleep with door ajar … absurd … Qy., could any one have entered room during night? … Impossible, as deceased a stranger here …
"Mem.—To find out if any one slept in adjacent rooms.
" … Examine pill-box … sudden idea about same … Fancy I'll be able to find name of deceased … if so look for motive of murder … questionable, very! if idea will lead to anything … still I'll try … This case piques my curiosity … Is it murder or suicide? … I must discover which … "
Chapter 2
A Curious Coincidence
That night, after a comfortable dinner—and the "Hungry Man's" dinners were something to be remembered—Mr. Fanks sat in front of the fire staring into a chaos of burning coals, and thinking deeply. It was in the commercial-room, of course, but there were no commercial travellers present. Mr. Fanks with a world of thought in his shrewd face was the only occupant of the room, and sat within the cheery circle of light proceeding from the red glare of the fire and the yellow flame of the lamp, while at his back the place was in semi-darkness. Cold, too—a nipping, chilly, frosty feeling, as if winter was giving the world a foretaste of his Christmas quality, and outside on the four tall windows beat the steady rain, while occasionally a gust of wind made their frames rattle.
Here, however, in this oasis of light in a desert of gloom, everything was pleasant and agreeable, except perchance Mr. Fanks, who sat with his cup of coffee standing on the table at his elbow untasted, while he frowned thoughtfully at the chaotic fire as though he had a personal spite against it.
A clever face, a very clever face, clean shaven, with sharply cut features, dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, and cut short in the military fashion, keen eyes of a bluish tint, with a shrewd twinkle in their depths, and a thin-lipped, resolute mouth—perhaps a trifle too resolute for so young a man (he was not more than thirty); but then, Mr. Fanks, although young in years, was old in experience, and every line on his features was a record of something learned at the cost of something lost, and on that account never forgotten. A smart, alert figure, too, had Mr. Fanks, well-clothed in a rough gray tweed suit, slender, sinewy hands with a ring—signet ring—on the little finger of the left one, and well-formed feet, neatly shod in boots of tanned leather.
A gentleman! Yes, decidedly the London detective was a gentleman—that could be seen by his whole appearance; and as to his dress, well, he wore his clothes like a man who went to a good tailor and valued him accordingly.
Quoth Mr. Fanks, after some minutes of deep thought, during which he removed his keen eyes from gazing fire-wards, and looked doubtfully at a pill-box which he held in his left hand:
"This is the only clue I can possibly obtain. The chemist who made up these pills has kindly put his name and address—in print—on the box. If, then, I go to this chemist, I will be able to find out the name of the dead man—after that the circumstances of his life, and then—well, after all, I may be wrong, and these country bumpkins right. It may be a case of suicide—I suppose, under the circumstances, they could hardly bring in any other verdict, and yet it is so strange. Why should he have poisoned himself with morphia, when he could have done so with an overdose of these pills? Easier death, I dare say. Morphia is a narcotic, and arsenic an irritant. Humph! it's a strange case altogether—very strange. I don't know exactly what to make of it."
He relapsed into silence, slipped the pill-box into his pocket, and taking the cup from the table began to sip his coffee slowly. Coffee—black coffee, hot and strong, as Mr. Fanks was now taking it—clears the brain, and renders it intensely sharp and wakeful; so after a few minutes the detective put down the cup, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out his long legs, and began to think aloud once more, as was his fashion when alone.
"It's a fine profession that of a detective, but one gets tired of commonplace murders; this, however, isn't a commonplace murder. Query. Is it a murder at all? Jury say 'No.' I say 'Yes'—eh! I wonder who is right! Egotism on my part, probably, but I believe in my own idea. Why should a man come down to this out-of-the-way place to die? Why should he take the trouble to explain that he intends to stop here for a week if he intended to commit suicide? No! I can't and won't believe it's suicide. As to that theory of Carr's, that he brought just enough morphia to poison himself. Rubbish! Suicides don't take so much trouble as a rule. My belief," continued Mr. Fanks, reflectively, "my belief is that he took something innocently and it killed him. Now what would he take innocently? These pills, of course! Yet, if they killed him, it would be arsenic, not morphia. Hang it, what the deuce does it all mean?"
There being no answer to this question, he caught his chin between his finger and thumb, staring hard at the fire meanwhile, as if thereby to solve his doubts. A hard case, this Jarlchester Mystery; a difficult case; and yet it fascinated Mr. Fanks by its very difficulty. He was fond of difficulties, this young man. In his childish days, Chinese puzzles—most perplexing of mysteries—had been his delight. As a schoolboy, he adored algebraical problems and newspaper cryptograms, so now in his early manhood he found his true vocation in solving those inexplicable enigmas which the criminal classes, and very often the non-criminal classes—principally the latter—present to the world for solution.
Mr. Fanks was suddenly aroused from his problematical musings by the sudden opening of the door, and on turning his head with a start, saw it was being closed by a tall young man, who immediately afterwards advanced slowly towards the fire.
"As this is the warmest room in the house," said the new-comer, carelessly, "I've ventured to intrude my company upon you for an hour or so."
"Very pleased, indeed," murmured Mr. Fanks, pushing his chair to one side, so as to allow the stranger to have a fair share of the fire. "It's dull work sitting alone."
This movement on the part of Mr. Fanks and the sitting down of the stranger brought both their faces within the mellow radiance of the lamp, whereupon a sudden look of recognition flashed into the eyes of each.
"Roger Axton!" cried the detective, springing to his feet.
"Fanks!" said the other, also rising and cordially clasping the hand held out to him. "My dear old schoolfellow!"
"And your dear old schoolfellow's nickname also," remarked Fanks, as they shook hands heartily. "What a curious coincidence, to be sure! It is only the mountains that never meet."
"Ten years ago," said Axton, resuming his seat with a sigh. "Ten years ago, Octavius!"
"And it seems like yesterday," observed Octavius, smiling. "Strange that I should meet little Axton at Jarlchester, of all places in the world. What brought you here, old boy?"
"My own legs," said Roger, complacently. "I'm in the poet trade, and have