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THE SILVER BULLET






---------------------------
BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE SILENT HOUSE IN PIMLICO
THE BISHOP'S SECRET
THE CRIMSON CRYPTOGRAM
THE GOLDEN WANG-HO
THE TURNPIKE HOUSE
A TRAITOR IN LONDON
WOMAN--THE SPHINX
THE JADE EYE

----------------------------
John Long, Publisher, London






THE SILVER BULLET


BY
FERGUS HUME



London
John Long
13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket






THE SILVER BULLET




CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN THE PINE WOOD


"We had better lie down and die," said Robin peevishly. "I can't go a
step further," and to emphasise his words he deliberately sat.

"Infernal little duffer," growled Herrick. "Huh! Might have guessed
you would Joyce." He threw himself down beside his companion and
continued grumbling. "You have tobacco, a fine night, and a heather
couch of the finest, yet you talk as though the world were coming to
an end."

"I'm sure this moor never will," sighed Joyce, reminded of his
cigarettes, "we have been trudging it since eight in the morning, yet
it still stretches to the back-of-beyond. Hai!"

The pedestrians were pronouncedly isolated. A moonless sky thickly
jewelled with stars, arched over a treeless moor, far-stretching as
the plain of Shinar. In the luminous summer twilight, the eye could
see for a moderate distance, but to no clearly defined horizon; and
the verge of sight was limited by vague shadows, hardly definite
enough to be mists.

The moor exhaled the noonday heats in thin white vapour, which shut
out from the external world those who nestled to its bosom. A sense of
solitude, the brooding silence, the formless surroundings, and above
all, the insistence of the infinite, would have appealed on ordinary
occasions to the poetical and superstitious side of Robin's nature.
But at the moment, his nerves were uppermost. He was worn-out,
fractious as a child, and in his helplessness could have cried like
one. Herrick knew his friend's frail physique and inherited neurosis:
therefore he forebore to make bad worse by ill advised sympathy.
Judiciously waiting until Joyce had in some degree soothed himself
with tobacco, he talked of the common-place.

"Nine o'clock," said he peering at his watch; "thirteen hour's
walking. Nothing to me Robin, but a goodish stretch to you. However we
are within hail of civilization, and in England. A few miles further
we'll pick up a village of sorts no doubt. One would think you were
exploiting Africa the way you howl."

He spoke thus callously, in order to brace his friend; but Joyce
resented the tone with that exaggerated sense of injury peculiar to
the neurotic. "I am no Hercules like you Jim," he protested sullenly;
"all your finer feelings have been blunted by beef and beer. You can't
feel things as I do. Also," continued Robin still more querulously,
"it seems to have escaped your memory, that I returned only last night
from a two day's visit to Town."

"If you _will_ break up your holiday into fragments, you must not
expect to receive the benefit its enjoyment as a whole would give you.
It was jolly enough last week sauntering through the Midlands, till
you larked up to London, and fagged yourself with its detestable
civilization."

Joyce threw aside his cigarette and nervously began to roll another.
"It was no lark which took me up Jim. The letter that came to the
Southberry Inn was about--her business."

"Sorry old man. I keep forgetting your troubles. Heat and the want of
food make me savage. We'll rest here for a time, and then push on. Not
that a night in the open would matter to me."

Joyce made no reply but lying full length on the dry herbage, stared
at the scintillating sky. At his elbow, Herrick, cross-legged like a
fakir, gave himself up to the enjoyment of a disreputable pipe. The
more highly-strung man considered the circumstances which had placed
him where he was.

Two months previously, Robin Joyce had lost his mother, to whom he had
been devotedly attached: and the consequent grief had made a wreck of
him. For weeks he had shut himself up in the flat once brightened by
her presence to luxuriate in woe. He possessed in a large degree that
instinct for martyrdom, latent in many people, which searches for
sorrow, as a more joyous nature hunts for pleasure. The blow of Mrs.
Joyce's death had fallen unexpectedly, but it brought home to Robin,
the knowledge--strange as it may sound--that a mental pleasure can be
plucked from misfortune. He locked himself in his room, wept much, and
ate little; neglected his business of contributor to several
newspapers, and his personal appearance. Thus the pain of his loss
merged itself in that delight of self-mortification, which must have
been experienced by the hermits of the Thebiad. Not entirely from
religious motives was the desert made populous with hermits in the
days of Cyril and Hypatia.

Herrick did not realize this transcendental indulgence, nor would he
have understood it, had he done so. Emphatically a sane man, he would
have deemed it a weakness degrading to the will, if not a species of
lunacy. As it was, he merely saw that Robin yielded to an unrestrained
grief detrimental to his health, and insisted upon carrying him off
for a spell in the open air. With less trouble than he anticipated,
Robin's consent was obtained. The mourner threw himself with ardour
into the scheme, selected the county of Berks as the most inviting for
a ramble; and when fairly started, showed a power of endurance amazing
in one so frail.

Jim however being a doctor, was less astonished than a layman would
have been. He knew that in Joyce a tremendous nerve power dominated
the feebler muscular force, and that the man would go on like a
blood-horse until he dropped from sheer exhaustion. The collapse on
the moor did not surprise him. He only wondered that Robin had held
out for so many days.

"But I wish you had not gone to London," said Herrick pursuing aloud
this train of thought.

"I had to go," replied Joyce not troubling to query the remark. "The
lawyer wrote about my poor mother's property. In my sorrow, I had
neglected to look after it, but at Southberry Junction feeling better,
thanks to your open air cure, I thought it wise to attend to the
matter."

Then Joyce went on to state with much detail, how he had caught the
Paddington express at Marleigh--their last stopping place--and had
seen his lawyer. The business took some time to settle; but it
resulted in the knowledge that Joyce found himself possessed of five
hundred a year in Consols. "Also the flat and the furniture," said
Robin, "so I am not so badly off. I can devote myself wholly to novels
now, and shall not have to rack my brains for newspaper articles."

Herrick nodded over a newly-filled pipe. "Did you sleep at the flat?"

"No, I went up on Tuesday as you know, and slept that night at the
Hull Hotel, a small house in one of the Strand side streets. Last
night, I joined you at Southberry."

"And it is now Thursday," said Herrick laughing. "How particular you
are as to detail Robin. Well, Southberry is a goodish way behind us
now and Saxham is our next resting place. Feel better?"

"Yes, thanks. In another quarter of an hour, I shall make the attempt
to reach Saxham. But we are so late, I fear no bed----"

"Oh, that's alright. We can wake the landlord, I calculate we have only
three miles."

"Quite enough too. By the way Jim, what did you do, when I left you?"

In the semi-darkness Herrick chuckled. "Fell in love!" said he.

"H'm! You lost no time about it. And she?"

"A daughter of the gods, divinely tall; dark hair, creamy skin,
sea-blue eyes the figure and gait of Diana, and--"

"More of the Celt than the Greek," interrupted Joyce, "blue eyes,
black hair, that is the Irish type. Where did you see her?"

"In Southberry Church, talking to a puny curate, who did not deserve
such a companion. Oh, Robin, her voice! like an Eolian harp."

"It must possess a variety of tones then Jim. Did she see you?"

Herrick nodded and laughed again. "She looked and blushed. Beauty drew
me with a single hair, therefore I thrilled responsive. Love at first
sight Robin. Heigh-ho! never again shall I see this Helen of
Marleigh."

"Live in hope," said Joyce, springing to his feet. "Allons, mon ami."

The more leisurely Herrick rose, markedly surprised at this sudden
recuperation. "Wonderful man. One minute you are dying, the next
skipping like a two year old. Hysterical all the same," he added as
Joyce laughed.

"Those three miles," explained the other feverishly, "I feel that I
have to walk them, and my determination is braced to breaking point."

"That means you'll collapse half way," retorted the doctor unstrapping
his knapsack. "Light a match. Valerian for you my man."

Robin made no objection. He knew the value of Valerian for those
unruly nerves of his, at present vibrating like so many harp-strings,
twangled by an unskilful player. His small white face looked smaller
and whiter than ever in the faint light of the match; but his great
black eyes flamed like wind-blown torches. The contrast of Herrick's
sun-tanned Saxon looks, struck him as almost ludicrous. Joyce needed
no mirror to assure him of his appearance at the moment. He knew only
too well how he aged on the eve of a nerve storm. For the present it
was averted by the valerian; but he knew and so did Herrick, that
sooner or later it would surely come.

"We must get on as fast as possible," said Herrick, the knapsack again
on his broad back. "Food, drink, rest; you need all three. Forward!"

For some time they walked on in silence. Robin was so small, Dr. Jim
so large, that they looked like the giant and dwarf of the old fairy
tale on their travels. But in this case it was the giant who did all
the work. Joyce was a pampered, lazy, irresponsible child, in the
direct line of descent from Harold Skimpole. If Jim Herrick must be
likened to another hero of romance, Amyas Leigh was his prototype.

The shadows melted before them, and closed in behind, and still there
was nothing but plain and mist. At the end of two miles a dark bulk
like a thunder-cloud, loomed before them. It stretched directly across
their path. "Bogey," laughed Robin.

"A wood," said the more prosaic Jim, "this moor is fringed with
pine-woods: remember the forest we passed through this morning."

"In the cheerful sunshine," shuddered Joyce. "I don't like woodlands
by night. The fairies are about and goblins of the worst. Ha! Yonder
the lantern of Puck. Oberon holds revel in the wood."

"Puck must be putting a girdle round the earth then Robin," said
Herrick and stared at the white starry light, which beamed above the
trees.

"Hecate's torch," cried Joyce, "a meeting of witches," and he began to
chant the gruesome rhymes of the sisterhood, as Macbeth heard them.
"The scene is a blasted heath too," said he.

By this time the moon was rising, and silver shafts struck inward to
the heart of the pines. The aerial light vanished behind the leafy
screen, as the travellers came to a halt on the verge of the
undergrowth.

"We must get through," said Dr. Jim, "or if you like Robin, we can
skirt round. Saxham village is just beyond I fancy."

"Let us choose the bee-line," murmured Joyce. "I want a bed and a meal
as soon as possible. This part of the world is unknown to me. You
lead."

"I don't know it myself. However here's a path. We'll follow it to the
light. That comes from a tower of sorts. Too high up for a house."

With Herrick as pioneer, they plunged into the wood, following a
winding path. In the gloom, their heads came into contact with boughs
and tree-trunks but occasionally the moon made radiant the secret
recesses, and revealed unexpected openings. The path sometimes passed
across a glade, on the sward of which Joyce declared he saw the
fairies dancing: and anon plunged into a cimmerian gloom suggestive of
the underworld. No wind swung the heavy pine-boughs; the wild
creatures of the wood gave no sign, made no stir: yet the explorers
heard a low persistent swish-swurr-swish, like the murmur of a dying
breeze. It came from no particular direction, but droned on all sides
without pause, without change of note. Herrick heard Robin's
hysterical sob, as the insistent sound bored into his brain. He would
have made some remark; but at the moment they emerged into a open
space of considerable size. Here, ringed by pines, loomed a vast grey
house, with a slim tower. In that tower burned the steady light
outshining even the moon's lustre. But what was more remarkable still,
was the illumination of the mansion. Every window radiated white fire.

"Queer," said Robin halting on the verge of the wood, "not even a
fence or a wall: a path or an outhouse. One would think that this was
an inferior Aladdin's palace dropped here by some negligent genii. All
ablaze too," he added wonderingly; "the owner must be giving a ball."

"No signs of guests anyhow," returned Herrick as puzzled as his
companion. "H'm! Queer thing to find Versailles in a pine wood.
However it may afford us a bed and a supper."

It was certainly strange. The circle of trees stopped short of the
building at fifty yards. On all sides stretched an expanse of shorn
and well-kept turf, pathless as the sea. In its midst the mansion was
dropped--as Joyce aptly put it--unexpectedly. A two-storey Tudor
building, with battlements, and mullioned windows, terraces and
flights of shallow steps: the whole weather-worn and grey in the
moonlight, over-grown with ivy, and distinctly ruinous. The
dilapidated state of the house, contrasted in a rather sinister manner
with the perfectly-kept lawn. Also another curious contrast, was the
tower. This tacked on to the western corner, stood like a lean white
ghost, watching over its earthly habitation. Its gleaming stone-work
and sharp outlines showed that it had been built within the last
decade. A distinct anachronism, which marred the quaint antiquity of
the mediæval mansion.

"He must be an astrologer," said Joyce referring to the owner, "or it
may be that the tower is an inland pharos, to guide travellers across
that pathless moor. A horrible place," he muttered.

"Why horrible?" asked Dr. Jim as they crossed the lawn.

Robin shuddered, and cast a backward glance. "I can hardly explain.
But to my mind, there is something sinister in this lonely mansion,
ablaze with light, yet devoid of inhabitants."

"We have yet to find out if that is the case Robin. Hullo! the door is
open," and in the strong moonlight they looked wonderingly at each
other.

The heavy door--oak, clamped with iron--was slightly ajar. Herrick
bent upon consummating the adventure, pushed it slightly open. They
beheld a large hall with a tesselated pavement, and stately columns.
Between these last stood black oak high-backed chairs upholstered in
red velvet: also statues of Greek gods and goddesses, holding aloft
opaque globes, radiant with light. A vast marble staircase with wide
and shallow steps, sloped upwards, and on either side of this, from
the height of the landing fell scarlet velvet curtains, shutting in
the hall. The whiteness of the marble, the crimson of the draperies,
the brilliance of the light; these sumptuous furnishings amazed the
dusty pedestrians. It was as though, on a lonely prairie, one should
step suddenly into the splendours of the Vatican.

"The palace of the Sleeping Beauty," whispered the awe-struck Robin.
"Who can say romance is dead, when one can stumble upon such an
adventure."

Herrick shared Robin's perplexity: but of a more practical nature, he
addressed himself less to the romance than to the reality. Seeing no
one, hearing nothing, he touched an ivory button, that glimmered a
white spot beside the door. Immediately a silvery succession of
sounds, shrilled through the--apparently--lonely house. "Electric
bells, electric light. The hermit of this establishment is
up-to-date."

"He is also deaf, and has no servants," said Joyce impatiently after a
few minutes had passed. "Has a Borgian banquet taken place here? The
guests seem to be dead. Hai! the whole thing is damnable."

"Don't let yourself go," said the doctor roughly squeezing the little
man's arm, "wait and see the upshot."

Again and again they rang the bell, and themselves heard its
imperative summons: but no one appeared. Then they took their courage
in both hands, and stepped into the house. Passing through the crimson
curtains, they found themselves in a wide corridor enamelled green,
with velvet carpet and more light-bearing statues. On either side were
doors draped with emerald silk. Herrick led the way through one of
these, for Joyce, rendered timorous by the adventure would not take
the initiative.

In the first room, an oval table was set out for a solitary meal. The
linen was bleached as the Alpine snow, the silver antique, the crystal
exquisite, the porcelain worth its weight in gold. An iridescent glass
vase in the centre was filled with flowers, but these drooped,
withered and brown. The bread also was stale, the fruits were
shrivelled from their early freshness. Magnificently furnished and
draped, the room glowed in splendour, under innumerable electric
lights. But the intruders had eyes only for that sumptuous table, with
its air of desolation, and its place set for one. Anything more
sinister can scarcely be conceived.

"No one has sat down to this meal," said Herrick lifting the covers of
the silver dishes, "it has stood here for hours, if not for days. Let
us see if we can find the creature for whom it was intended."

"Perhaps you expect to find the Beast that loved Beauty, since you
call him a creature," said Robin hysterically. "Here is wine."

Dr. Jim went to the sideboard, whereon were ranged decanters of
Venetian glass containing many different vintages. Passing over these
he selected a pint bottle of champagne. "We must make free of our
position," he said, unwiring this, "afterwards we can apologise."

"Ugh!" cried Robin as the cork popped with a staccato sound in the
silence. "How gruesome; give me a glass at once Jim."

"I don't know if it is good for you in your present state," replied
the doctor brimming a goblet, "however the whole adventure is so
queer, that an attack of nerves is excusable. Drink up."

Robin did so, and was joined by Jim. They finished the bottle, and
felt exhilarated, and more ready to face the unknown. Again Herrick
led the way to further explorations. Adjacent to the dining-room, they
discovered a small kitchen, white-tiled and completely furnished. "Our
hermit cooks for himself," declared Dr. Jim, eying the utensils of
polished copper. "This is not a servant's kitchen: also it is off the
dining-room."

Robin made no reply, but followed his friend, his large eyes becoming
larger at every fresh discovery. They entered a drawing-room filled
with splendid furniture, silver knick-knacks, costly china, and
Eastern hangings of great price. There was a library stored with books
in magnificent bindings, and with tables piled with latter-day
magazines, novels and newspapers. "Our hermit keeps himself abreast of
the world," commented Jim.

Then came a picture gallery, but this was on a second storey and
lighted from the roof. Treasures of art ancient and modern glowed here
under the radiance of the light, which illuminated every room. A
smoking-room fashioned like a ship's cabin: a Japanese apartment,
crammed with the lacquer work, and stiff embroideries of Yeddo and
Yokahama; a shooting gallery; a bowling alley; a music room,
containing a magnificent Erard. Finally a dozen bedrooms furnished
with taste and luxury. To crown all they discovered a gymnasium fitted
up completely even to foils and boxing gloves: and a huge bathroom.
This last was throughout of white marble, with a square pool of water
in the centre. "What a pond to bathe in!" cried Jim enviously, for he
was hot and dusty. "Our hermit is an ancient Roman; he understands how
to enjoy life. Come along Robin!"

But by this time they had explored almost the whole of the wonderful
house. There remained the back premises, but on entering, they found
nothing but darkness and dirt, squalor and coldness. The hermit's
attention to his mansion stopped short at the servant's door. "And I
don't believe he has any servants," declared Joyce. "How the deuce
does he keep all this clean?"

The doctor shook his head. He hardly knew what to say. The situation
was beyond him. A palace in the wilderness, with an open door inviting
thieves! Crammed with treasures, brilliant with light, uninhabited,
deserted. Was there ever anything so wonderful? He had to pinch
himself to make sure that he was awake. "We have got into the world of
the fourth dimension: the fairy-land of the Arabian Nights. What do
you think Joyce?"

"I think we had better climb up to the tower," said Robin with unusual
common sense, "It is the only place we have left unexplored. There is
a light there too; Aladdin may be aloft."

Herrick shook his head. "He would have heard the bell. However come
along. We must find someone."

With some difficulty they discovered the staircase leading to the
tower. It was narrow but straight, and not so steep as might have been
expected. At the top Herrick--leading as usual--was confronted by a
closed door of plain deal. It was not locked however, and having
knocked without receiving a reply he opened it. Joyce at his heels
peeped over his shoulder and beheld a small square room with windows
on all four sides, and a large central globe burning in the ceiling.
In contrast to the rest of the house, this room was absolutely bare.
Blank walls, Chinese matting on the floor, a camp bedstead in one
corner, a deal table without a covering in another, and two cane
chairs. No anchorite could have had a more ascetic cell.

Herrick took in the scene at a glance, took in also, its--to
him--central feature, the body of a man lying face downwards, near the
bed. Joyce saw the corpse also, and remained at the door, shaking and
white.

"Murder or suicide?" Jim asked himself as he turned over the dead.

That, which had once been a man, was in evening dress. In the finest
of linen and jewellery, the most immaculate of clothes, it lay under
the scrutinising eye of Dr. Herrick. A lean evil face, with a hook
nose, scanty grey hair cut short and a long moustache carefully
trimmed. The left hand gripped a revolver; the shirt front over the
heart was covered with blood, and a stream, coagulated and black,
streaked the matting.

"In God's name?" cried Joyce not daring to enter, "what is it?"

"It was once the owner of this house I suppose," said Herrick grimly.
"Now, it is a piece of carrion. Suicide apparently. Dead over
twenty-four hours. Shot through the heart. A steady hand to do that.
H'm, left-handed too. Is it suicide, or murder? Here's a damnable
discovery to cap the adventure," said Dr. Jim gravely.

From the doorway came a gasp, a tittering laugh. Jim had just time to
spring forward when Joyce lunged into his arms. The long expected
nerve-storm had come at last.




CHAPTER II
DE MORTUIS NIL NISI MALUM

"And sunsets fire, the Saxham spire,
My guide post unto heaven."


So sang midway in the last century a local poet, who died long since
and passed, poems and all, into oblivion. But the famous spire in its
copper sheathing still catches the sunlight, and glows in the centre
of Saxham, a veritable pillar of fire. Those natives who have
emigrated, enlisted as soldiers, taken situations in London and
elsewhere, shipped before the mast, as some have done, always remember
church and spire. The children recall its ruddy blaze when they read
Exodus.

Saxham was not a large place. It might have contained a couple of
hundred inhabitants, probably less, and these principally agricultural
labourers. They worked on the farms and estates which dotted the vast
alluvial plain stretching to Beorminster. As the city, like that one
mentioned in the Bible, is set upon a hill, the twin towers of the
cathedral and Bishop Gandolf's spire can easily be seen from Saxham.
But the villagers prefer their own spire and their own parson, rarely
venturing the three miles to Beorminster. Those who do go, always
return to their beloved hamlet, more convinced than ever as to the
superiority of their birthplace. A sturdy stubborn set of rustics,
these men and women of Saxham.

The topography of the country as set down in Herrick's map, showed
that Saxham was almost the centre of the district, taking Beorminster
as the real navel. The great plain was covered with many such hamlets,
each clustering round its parent church; but Saxham was the nearest to
the city. Far away on the other side was smoky Irongrip the
manufacturing town; almost in sight of Marleigh and Heathcroft. Then
sixteen miles across Southberry Heath (which Herrick and Joyce had so
wearily trodden on the previous night) Southberry Junction roared with
perpetual traffic for here, the great main line tapped the local
railways which converged from all points. The pine-woods, sheltering
Saxham from the chill winds of the moor, also barred it from the
outside world, as Southberry was considered to be. Saxham, with its
neighbouring hamlets, claimed to belong solely to Beorminster. The
folk would have called themselves autochthonous, had they known of
such a word and its meaning.

The plan of the village was simple. In its centre was a genuine
village green, with a quincunx of immemorial elms. From this ran four
streets through the mass of houses, until they passed beyond them
altogether and out into the country. On one side stands St. Edith's
church in a nest of trees; on the other 'The Carr Arms' an inn of
undoubted antiquity. The remaining two sides are occupied by rows of
mediæval-looking houses, inhabited by those whom Saxham calls "the
best people," by which is meant the tradesmen. There was no doctor or
lawyer and the rector representing the gentry in the village itself,
dwelt on its outskirts. The country people lived outside the village
on their estates and visited it only on business; and as there were no
Radicals in Saxham, these were looked upon as more than mortal.

Under the red tiled roof of 'The Carr Arms,' Robin Joyce was still
sleeping the next morning when the green was filled with excited
people talking of the murder--so they called it. The events of the
previous night had so shaken the nerve of the little man, that it was
all Herrick could do to get him out of that ghastly mansion, and down
to the inn. Dr. Jim, rousing the landlord, had told his story and
after seeing Robin to bed, had turned in himself. What did it matter
to him, that the great house was still ablaze in the pine-wood, still
filled with precious things, and its doors and windows open to
thieves? He was too tired almost to think, and the moment his head was
on the pillow, he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, which lasted
until ten the next morning.

From this much-needed rest, he was awakened by Napper, the landlord, a
burly man, with a ruddy face suggestive of beef and beer in large
quantities. In no very pleasant humour, Jim sat up, to demand with a
growl and an adjective what was wanted. On being informed that Mr.
Inspector Bridge of Beorminster waited to see him, the events of the
night came back on his still drowsy brain with a rush. Thoroughly
awakened, he promised to be down in half an hour, and forthwith
tumbled into the largest cold bath Napper could provide. After a
douche, and ten minutes' gymnastics, the Doctor hurried into a clean
shirt and his homespun suit. While he dressed he meditated on the fact
that Napper had lost no time in telling the police what had happened.
In a few minutes he looked into Robin's bedroom, and finding his
companion still in an exhausted slumber, he went downstairs alone, to
face the officer.

Inspector Bridge was a tall lean man with a serious face, and--what
was surprising taken in conjunction with his funereal looks--a jocular
manner. The man's humour lurked in his eyes--a grey pair of twinklers,
which belied the turned-down corners of his mouth. His movements were
slow, his tone was brisk and businesslike. Rather a contradictory
personality Herrick thought, and concluded that Bridge resembled
nothing so much as an undertaker out for a holiday. His profession
would thus account for the solemnity and slowness, and the holiday
explain his brisk jocularity.

This incongruous officer considered the young man with a pursed-up
mouth and a humorsome eye. He saw that Herrick was a gentleman, and
this opinion being confirmed--in the Inspector's mind--by the sight of
a signet ring, he treated him with more deference than he had been
prepared to show. Napper's report of the pedestrians had led Bridge to
infer that they were of the genus "tramp."

"Good morning sir," began the Inspector genially. "I have come to see
you about this murder of Colonel Carr. My card--Mr.--Mr.--"

"Dr. Herrick," said Jim, glancing at what he profanely called the
official ticket. "Have you breakfasted Mr. Inspector? If not, or if
you have--it really doesn't really matter--take the meal with me. I
must eat before I can talk."

Bridge was only too willing, and Herrick went up several degrees in
his good opinion. "Napper can cater excellently," said he rubbing his
hands. "I have often tested his hospitality."

Dr. Jim privately thought that the Inspector was not averse to
testing anyone's hospitality: but the man seemed decent enough, and
Herrick was sufficiently worldly-wise to make himself agreeable to
Jack-in-Office. In another half hour the two were seated in a pleasant
parlour before a well-spread table. Bridge performed wonders in the
way of eating. How he could remain lean with such an appetite, was a
wonder to Jim. But the doctor himself was not far behind, and between
the two of them, they swept the table clean. Then Herrick lighted his
pipe, ensconced himself in a chintz-covered arm-chair near the window,
and prepared to answer the Inspector's questions before asking several
of his own.

At the out-set Bridge detailed, all that had been done up to that
moment. Three policemen were looking after "The Pines" (so was the
house called), and guarding the dead; a doctor was expected from
Beorminster to inspect the body; the Coroner to