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Authors: Douglas G. Greene

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For there was the lighthouse—or half of it, rather—standing up above the fog-bank, clear, distinct, and hardly a mile away. The gilded vane, the sparkling lantern, the gallery, and the upper half of the red and white ringed tower, stood sharp against the pallid sky; but the lower half was invisible. It was a strange apparition—like half a lighthouse suspended in mid-air—and uncommonly disturbing, too. It raised a very awkward question. If he could see the lantern, the light-keepers could see him. But how long had the lantern been clear of the fog?

Thus he meditated as, with one hand on the tiller, he munched his biscuit and sipped his grog. Presently he picked up the stamped envelope and drew from it a letter and a folded document, both of which he tore into fragments and dropped overboard. Then, from his pocket-book, he took a similar but unaddressed envelope from which he drew out the contents, and very curious those contents were.

There was a letter, brief and laconic, which he read over thoughtfully. “These,” it ran, “are all I have by me, but they will do for the present, and when you have planted them I will let you have a fresh supply.” There was no date and no signature, but the rather peculiar hand-writing was similar to that on the envelope addressed to Joseph Penfield, Esq.

The other contents consisted of a dozen sheets of blank paper, each of the size of a Bank of England note. But they were not quite blank, for each bore an elaborate water-mark, identical with that of a twenty-pound banknote. They were, in fact, the “paper blanks” of which Purcell had spoken. The envelope with its contents had been slipped into his hand by Purcell, without remark, only three days ago.

Varney refolded the “blanks,” enclosed them within the letter, and slipped letter and “blanks” together into the stamped envelope, the flap of which he licked and reclosed.

“I should like to see old Penfield's face when he opens that envelope,” was his reflection as, with a grim smile, he put it away in his pocket-book. “And I wonder what he will do,” he added, mentally; “however, I shall see before many days are over.”

Varney looked at his watch. He was to meet Jack Rodney on Penzance Pier at a quarter to three. He would never do it at this rate, for when he opened Mount's Bay, Penzance would be right in the wind's eye. That would mean a long beat to windward. Then Rodney would be there first, waiting for him. Deuced awkward, this. He would have to account for his being alone on board; would have to invent some lie about having put Purcell ashore at Mousehole or Newlyn. But a lie is a very pernicious thing. Its effects are cumulative. You never know when you have done with it. Now, if he had reached Penzance before Rodney he need have said nothing about Purcell—for the present, at any rate, and that would have been so much safer.

When the yacht was about abreast of Lamorna Cove, though some seven miles to the south, the breeze began to draw ahead and the fog cleared off quite suddenly. The change of wind was unfavourable for the moment, but when it veered round yet a little more until it blew from east-north-east, Varney brightened up considerably. There was still a chance of reaching Penzance before Rodney arrived; for now, as soon as he had fairly opened Mount's Bay, he could head straight for his destination and make it on a single board.

Between two and three hours later the
Sandhopper
entered Penzance Harbour, and, threading her way among an assemblage of luggers and small coasters, brought up alongside the Albert Pier at the foot of a vacant ladder. Having made the yacht fast to a couple of rings, Varney divested himself of his oilskins, locked the cabin scuttle, and climbed the ladder. The change of wind had saved him after all, and, as he strode away along the pier, he glanced complacently at his watch. He still had nearly half an hour to the good.

He seemed to know the place well and to have a definite objective, for he struck out briskly from the foot of the pier into Market Jew Street, and from thence by a somewhat zig-zag route to a road which eventually brought him out about the middle of the Esplanade. Continuing westward, he entered the Newlyn Road along which he walked rapidly for about a third of a mile, when he drew up opposite a small letter-box which was let into a wall. Here he stopped to read the tablet on which was printed the hours of collection, and then, having glanced at his watch, he walked on again, but at a less rapid pace.

When he reached the outskirts of Newlyn he turned and began slowly to retrace his steps, looking at his watch from time to time with a certain air of impatience. Presently a quick step behind him caused him to look round. The newcomer was a postman, striding along, bag on shoulder, with the noisy tread of a heavily-shod man, and evidently collecting letters. Varney let him pass; watched him halt at the little letter-box, unlock the door, gather up the letters and stow them in his bag; heard the clang of the iron door, and finally saw the man set forth again on his pilgrimage. Then he brought forth his pocket-book and, drawing from it the letter addressed to Joseph Penfield, Esq., stepped up to the letter-box. The tablet now announced that the next collection would be at 8.30 p.m. Varney read the announcement with a faint smile, glanced again at his watch, which indicated two minutes past four, and dropped the letter into the box.

As he walked up the pier, with a large paper bag under his arm, he became aware of a tall man, who was doing sentry-go before a Gladstone bag, that stood on the coping opposite the ladder, and who, observing his approach, came forward to meet him.

“Here you are, then, Rodney,” was Varney's rather unoriginal greeting.

“Yes,” replied Rodney, “and here I've been for nearly half an hour. Purcell gone?”

“Bless you, yes; long ago,” answered Varney.

“I didn't see him at the station. What train was he going by?”

“I don't know. He said something about taking Falmouth on the way; had some business or other there. But I expect he's gone to have a feed at one of the hotels. We got hung up in a fog—that's why I'm so late; I've been up to buy some prog.”

“Well,” said Rodney, “bring it on board. It's time we were under way. As soon as we are outside, I'll take charge and you can go below and stoke up at your ease.”

The two men descended the ladder and proceeded at once to hoist the sails and cast off the shore-ropes. A few strokes of an oar sent them clear of the lee of the pier, and in five minutes the yacht
Sandhopper
was once more outside, heading south with a steady breeze from east-north-east.

II. The Unravelling of the Mystery

Romance lurks in unsuspected places. We walk abroad amidst scenes made dull by familiarity, and let our thoughts ramble far away beyond the commonplace. In fancy we thread the ghostly aisles of some tropical forest; we linger on the white beach of some lonely coral island, where the cocoa-nut palms, shivering in the sea-breeze, patter a refrain to the song of the surf; we wander by moonlight through the narrow streets of some southern city, and hear the thrum of the guitar rise to the shrouded balcony; and behold! all the time Romance is at our very doors.

It was on a bright afternoon early in March, that I sat beside my friend Thorndyke on one of the lower benches of the lecture theatre of the Royal College of Surgeons. Not a likely place this to encounter Romance, and yet there it was, if we had only known it, lying unnoticed at present on the green baize cover of the lecturer's table. But, for the moment, we were thinking of nothing but the lecture.

The theatre was nearly full. It usually was when Professor D'Arcy lectured; for that genial
savant
had the magnetic gift of infusing his own enthusiasm into the lecture, and so into his audience, even when, as on this occasion, his subject lay on the outside edge of medical science. To-day he was lecturing on marine worms, standing before the great blackboard with a bunch of coloured chalks in either hand, talking with easy eloquence—mostly over his shoulder—while he covered the black surface with those delightful drawings that added so much to the charm of his lectures.

I watched his flying fingers with fascination, dividing my attention between him and a young man on the bench below me, who was frantically copying the diagrams in a large note-book, assisted by an older friend, who sat by him and handed him the coloured pencils as he needed them.

The latter part of the lecture dealt with those beautiful sea-worms that build themselves tubes to live in; worms like the
Serpula,
that make their shelly or stony tubes by secretion from their own bodies; or, like the
Sabella
or
Terbella,
build them up with sand-grains, little stones, or fragments of shell.

When the lecture came to an end, we trooped down into the arena to look at the exhibits and exchange a few words with the genial professor. Thorndyke knew him very well, and was welcomed with a warm handshake and a facetious question.

“What are you doing here, Thorndyke?” asked Professor D'Arcy. “Is it possible that there are medico-legal possibilities even in a marine worm?”

“Oh, come!” protested Thorndyke, “don't make me such a hidebound specialist. May I have no rational interest in life? Must I live for ever in the witness-box, like a marine worm in its tube?”

“I suspect you don't get very far out of your tube,” said the professor, with a smile at my colleague. “And that reminds me that I have something in your line. What do you make of this? Let us hear you extract its history.”

Here, with a mischievous twinkle, he handed Thorndyke a small, round object, which my friend inspected curiously as it lay in the palm of his hand.

“In the first place,” said he, “it is a cork; the cork of a small jar.”

“Right,” said the professor—“full marks. What else?”

“The cork has been saturated with paraffin wax.”

“Right again.”

“Then some Robinson Crusoe seems to have used it as a button, judging by the two holes in it, and an end of what looks like cat-gut.”

“Yes.”

“Finally, a marine worm of some kind—a
Terebella,
I think—has built a tube on it.”

“Quite right. And now tell us the history of the cork or button.”

“I should like to know something more about the worm first,” said Thorndyke.

“The worm,” said Professor D'Arcy, “is
Terebella Rufescens.
It lives, unlike most other species, on a rocky bottom, and in a depth of water of not less than ten fathoms.”

It was at this point that Romance stepped in. The young man whom I had noticed working so strenuously at his notes had edged up alongside, and was staring at the object in Thorndyke's hand, not with mere interest or curiosity, but with the utmost amazement and horror. His expression was so remarkable that we all, with one accord, dropped our conversation to look at him.

“Might I be allowed to examine that specimen?” he asked; and when Thorndyke handed it to him, he held it close to his eyes, scrutinising it with frowning astonishment, turned it over and over, and felt the frayed ends of cat-gut between his fingers. Finally, he beckoned to his friend, and the two whispered together for a while, and watching them I saw the second man's eyebrows lift, and the same expression of horrified surprise appear on his face. Then the younger man addressed the professor.

“Would you mind telling me where you got this specimen, sir?”

The professor was quite interested. “It was sent to me,” he said, “by a friend, who picked it up on the beach at Morte Hoe, on the coast of North Cornwall.”

The two young men looked significantly at one another, and, after a brief pause, the older one asked: “Is this specimen of much value, sir?”

“No,” replied the professor; “it is only a curiosity. There are several specimens of the worm in our collection. But why do you ask?”

“Because I should like to acquire it. I can't give you particulars—I am a lawyer, I may explain—but, from what my brother tells me it appears that this object has a bearing on—er—on a case in which we are both interested. A very important bearing, I may add, on a very important case.”

The professor was delighted. “There, now, Thorndyke,” he chuckled. “What did I tell you? The medico-legal worm has arrived. I told you in was something in your line, and now you've been forestalled. Of course,” he added, turning to the lawyer, “you are very welcome to this specimen. I'll give you a box to carry it in, with some cotton wool.”

The specimen was duly packed in its box, and the latter deposited in the lawyer's pocket; but the two brothers did not immediately leave the theatre. They stood apart, talking earnestly together, until Thorndyke and I had taken our leave of the professor, when the lawyer advanced and addressed my colleague.

“I don't suppose you remember me, Dr. Thorndyke,” he began; but my friend interrupted him.

“Yes, I do. You are Mr. Rodney. You were junior to Brooke in
Jelks
v.
Partington.
Can I be of any assistance to you?”

“If you would be so kind,” replied Rodney. “My brother and I have been talking this over, and we think we should like to have your opinion on the case. The fact is, we both jumped to a conclusion at once, and now we've got what the Yankees call ‘cold feet.' We think that we may have jumped too soon. Let me introduce my brother, Dr. Philip Rodney.”

We shook hands, and, making our way out of the theatre, presently emerged from the big portico into Lincoln's Inn Fields.

“If you will come and take a cup of tea at my chambers in Old Buildings,” said Rodney, “we can give you the necessary particulars. There isn't so very much to tell, after all. My brother identifies the cork or button, and that seems to be the only plain fact that we have. Tell Dr. Thorndyke how you identified it, Phil.”

“It is a simple matter,” said Philip Rodney. “I went out in a boat to do some dredging with a friend named Purcell. We both wore our oilskins as the sea was choppy and there was a good deal of spray blowing about; but Purcell had lost the top button of his, so that the collar kept blowing open and letting the spray down his neck. We had no spare buttons or needles or thread on board, but it occurred to me that I could rig up a jury button with a cork from one of my little collecting jars; so I took one out, bored a couple of holes through it with a pipe-cleaner, and threaded a piece of cat-gut through the holes.”

“Why cat-gut?” asked Thorndyke.

“Because I happened to have it. I play the fiddle, and I generally have a bit of a broken string in my pocket; usually an E string—the E strings are always breaking, you know. Well, I had the end of an E string in my pocket then, so I fastened the button on with it. I bored two holes in the coat, passed the ends of the string through, and tied a reef-knot. It was as strong as a house.”

“You have no doubt that it is the same cork?”

“None at all. First there is the size, which I know from having ordered the corks separately from the jars. Then I paraffined them myself after sticking on the blank labels. The label is there still, protected by the wax. And lastly there is the cat-gut; the bit that is left is obviously part of an E string.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “the identification seems to be unimpeachable. Now let us have the story.”

“We'll have some tea first,” said Rodney. “This is my burrow.” As he spoke, he dived into the dark entry of one of the ancient buildings on the south side of the little square, and we followed him up the crabbed, time-worn stairs, so different from our own lordly staircase in King's Bench Walk. He let us into his chambers, and, having offered us each an armchair, said: “My brother will spin you the yarn while I make the tea. When you have heard him you can begin the examination-in-chief. You understand that this is a confidential matter and that we are dealing with it professionally?”

“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke, “we quite understand that.” And thereupon Philip Rodney began his story.

“One morning last June two men started from Sennen Cove, on the west coast of Cornwall, to sail to Penzance in a little yacht that belongs to my brother and me. One of them was Purcell, of whom I spoke just now, and the other was a man named Varney. When they started, Purcell was wearing the oilskin coat with this button on it. The yacht arrived at Penzance at about four in the afternoon. Purcell went ashore alone to take the train to London or Falmouth, and was never seen again dead or alive. The following day Purcell's solicitor, a Mr. Penfield, received a letter from him bearing the Penzance postmark and the hour 8.45 p.m. The letter was evidently sent by mistake—put into the wrong envelope—and it appears to have been a highly compromising document. Penfield refuses to give any particulars, but thinks that the letter fully accounts for Purcell's disappearance—thinks, in fact, that Purcell has bolted.

“It was understood that Purcell was going to London from Penzance, but he seems to have told Varney that he intended to call in at Falmouth. Whether or not he went to Falmouth we don't know. Varney saw him go up the ladder on to the pier, and there all traces of him vanished. Varney thinks he may have discovered the mistake about the letter and got on board some outward-bound ship at Falmouth; but that is only surmise. Still, it is highly probable; and when my brother and I saw that button at the museum, we remembered the suggestion and instantly jumped to the conclusion that poor Purcell had gone overboard.”

“And then,” said Rodney, handing us our tea-cups, “when we came to talk it over we rather tended to revise our conclusion.”

“Why?” asked Thorndyke.

“Well, there are several other possibilities. Purcell may have found a proper button on the yacht and cut off the cork and thrown it overboard—we must ask Varney if he did—or the coat itself may have gone over or been lost or given away, and so on.”

On this Thorndyke made no comment, stirring his tea slowly with an air of deep preoccupation. Presently he looked up and asked, “Who saw the yacht start?”

“I did,” said Philip. “I and Mrs. Purcell and her sister and some fishermen on the beach. Purcell was steering, and he took the yacht right out to sea, outside the Longships. A sea fog came down soon after, and we were rather anxious, because the Wolf Rock lay right to leeward of the yacht.”

“Did anyone besides Varney see Purcell at Penzance?”

“Apparently not. But we haven't asked. Varney's statement seemed to settle that question. He couldn't very well have been mistaken, you know,” Philip added with a smile.

“Besides,” said Rodney, “if there were any doubt, there is the letter. It was posted in Penzance after eight o'clock at night. Now I met Varney on the pier at a quarter-past four, and we sailed out of Penzance a few minutes later to return to Sennen.”

“Had Varney been ashore?” asked Thorndyke.

“Yes, he had been up to the town buying some provisions.”

“But you said Purcell went ashore alone.”

“Yes, but there's nothing in that. Purcell was not a genial man. It was the sort of thing he would do.”

“And that is all that you know of the matter?” Thorndyke asked, after a few moments' reflection.

“Yes. But we might see if Varney can remember anything more, and we might try if we can squeeze any more information out of old Penfield.”

“You won't,” said Thorndyke. “I know Penfield and I never trouble to ask him questions. Besides, there is nothing to ask at present. We have an item of evidence that we have not fully examined. I suggest that we exhaust that, and meanwhile keep our own counsel most completely.”

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