I

THE amazing case of the disappearance of John Murry and its astonishing sequel began with the arrival of the man with the ebony watch chain at the Edinburgh Arms. The clerk on duty, always with an eye alert to the latest London fashions, surveyed the new arrival with a gratified smile. Seldom had so resplendent a guest registered at the hostelry.

       "Mr. — Mr. —," he hesitated diffidently as he tried to decipher the flourishing signature before him.

       "John Murry," was the impatient rejoinder.

       "What style of apartment do you desire, Mr. Murry?"

       "The best in the house!"

       The clerk stared at the register, stared at the man, stared at the ledger at his elbow, and announced ponderously, "We could let you have No. 18, Mr. Murry. It has held some noted personages, some noted personages, sir!"

       John Murry received the information with a careless nod, sauntered toward the "lift," and disappeared majestically from the eyes of the admiring clerk, who had privately noted no less than seven details of his raiment which he meant to copy.

       It was perhaps an hour later that a message was brought down from "Number Eighteen." It read:

       "Wanted — A valet with London experience to serve as gentleman's attendant. Liberal pay. Must present references. Apply to John Murry, Esq., Edinburgh Arms."

       "The clerk read the document with growing admiration and selected a messenger, himself, to carry it without delay to the office of the largest newspaper. When the next issue appeared with the advertisement in black-faced type, he sent a marked copy to "Number Eighteen," with a mental determination to take advantage of the opening thus presented to quiz the distinguished stranger on the latest styles in waist-coats. It was still early in the following day when applicants for the vacant position began to present themselves. Murry was served with his breakfast in his room and sent the dignified message to the office to show up any strangers who might call.

       Before the clock pointed to eleven, over a dozen men had been sent up the stairs, and had slowly descended with an air of disgusted indignation. They had applied for the vacant position, had produced their references, had been catecized — and rejected. John Murry was hard to please. The experience of the applicants varied but they all pointed to the same conclusion — that Murry was either a very eccentric or a very morose man. They had been stood up against the wall like truant school boys and plied with a list of questions ranging from their parents to their diseases. One unfortunate person was summarily dismissed as soon as he crossed the threshold of the room because he had sandy hair.

       "I don't object to red hair," drawled Murry, "when it is red. If it were brick red, I could accustom myself to it. But your hair is the shade of washed-out clay on a country road, my man. No person with an artistic temperament could stand your presence for five consecutive moments. You may go, at once, if you please!"

       Another applicant with excellent recommendations was dismissed after some hesitation because of his height. Murry, himself, was a short man. The other was tall and slender — slender to the verge of lankness. Murry surveyed him for several moments through half-closed eyes while the man shuffled uneasily from one foot to another. The occupant of "Number Eighteen" had established himself in a large rocker, and had drawn the blinds at his shoulder so that the room was kept in a condition of perpetual shadow. He, himself, was attired in a wonderful dressing gown of a rich Japanese design, with slippers to correspond. Occasionally he raised a slender Egyptian cigarette to his lips, exhaling the smoke in an odd fashion through his nose.

       Finally he waved his hand toward the tall man in the corner. "I have decided against you. You are not properly proportioned. Nature in your making neglected you. I admire a tall man, myself, probably because I am not one. But I want the rest of his body to correspond with his height. You give me the disagreeable impression of a flattened sausage. I could never have you around me — never."

"What Style of Apartment Do You Desire, Mr. Murry?"

       When a dozen applicants had wended their way upstairs, only to return with long steps and long faces, the clerk below began to wear an expression of dull bewilderment. Even for a gentleman fresh from London John Murry, Esquire, seemed strangely critical. Therefore, when shortly after noon, the thirteenth man descended with an expansive smile and announced that he had passed through the needle's eye, the clerk gazed at him. with peculiar interest.

       John Henry showed no outward marks superior to his fellow men. In fact, the gentleman who presided over the register was distinctly disappointed. He saw a soft-faced, soft-voiced, soft-handed man, who glided rather than walked and who never spoke unless it was in answer to a question.

       "Are you Mr. Murry's new valet?" asked the clerk.

       "I am."

       "I suppose you consider yourself fortunate?"

       "Why?"

       The clerk gazed at the man in disgust and returned to his sorting of the mail. He looked up suddenly with a letter.

       "Here's something for your master. Looks as though it might be important."

       The new servant received the epistle, nodded to save words, and silently ascended the steps. It was the first letter that John Murry, Esquire, had received, and to all appearances it was to be the last. Three days passed with the gentleman in "Number Eighteen" maintaining a dignified reserve. In the afternoon he rode out in gloomy meditation, in the evenings he attended the theater with the same air of unbending majesty, while the mornings he spent in bed.

       Many guesses were hazarded as to what had brought him to the city, what was his position in life, and how long his stay might be.

       From "Number Eighteen," however, there was a continued and emphasized silence. From neither master nor man came the slightest hint of their plans. It was not until the third day that the valet appeared at the hotel office with a note from his employer. It was as curt as the man himself:

       "Please direct my man how and where to cash enclosed check. As it is of a small amount, there should be no necessity to trouble me farther. I dislike exceedingly to be annoyed in such matters.

"John Murry, Esquire."      

       The clerk turned to the check. It was drawn on the Edinburgh Bank, and signed by John Stirling-Maxwell, a well-known London man of affairs. The "little amount" referred to was 1,575 pounds — $7,500. Across the back ran the sprawling signature of the man in "Number Eighteen." The clerk handed back the envelope with crisp directions how to reach the bank.

       "If you wait a moment, we will give you a note to the manager," he announced pompously. The valet bowed and waited. When at length, the clerk carelessly tossed the message, across to him, he bowed again, carefully tucked it into his pocket, and disappeared through the street door. He had not spoken once. Five minutes later, a curious thing happened. The clerk was gazing about the desk, with an air of ennui, when his eyes strayed to the descending "lift." As the door swung open, no less a person stepped out than John Murry, Esquire, dressed in his usual precise fashion for the street. He strode up to the desk with the abrupt question: "Will you direct me to the Edinburgh Bank?"

       The clerk stared. "I just sent your man there, sir," he remarked.

       "Who said anything about my man? Can you or can you not tell me where the bank is?"

       The clerk was properly abashed. "Oh, certainly, sir. Four blocks to the right, and two to the left. You can't miss it. Shall I call a cab?"

       But John Murry had vanished before the last sentence was uttered. The clerk stood staring in the direction he had taken with a troubled brow. "Well, you are a queer customer," he ventured at length, "even if you are from London!"

       As he noticed the clock, he saw that it was exactly half past two. It was perhaps thirty minutes later that the valet returned with an air of importance and a long packet. With the barest nod to the clerk, he made his way to the "lift." Two minutes afterward he was back at the hotel desk with the agitated question: "Have you seen — has anybody seen — Mr. Murry?"

       "Certainly, the clerk snapped. "He went out just after you did."

       At the simple sentence, the valet staggered back with white face and shaking hands. "He went out!" he repeated. "Did you say he went out?"

       The clerk laughed. "Is there anything remarkable in that?"

       The valet didn't answer. Turning about, he ran to the door and out into the street. If ever there was a man in a deathly fright, it was he. When he returned an hour later, however, he had mastered his emotion. He was alone, and the long packet he had held in his hand, had been put out of sight. "I am worried about Mr. Murry," he began in an odd tone. "He cautioned me repeatedly to hurry in my errand, and assured me that he would be here on my return. You say he followed me. And yet he has not been to the bank, and no one has seen him. Are you quite sure, sir, that he went out?"

       The doubt in the man's eyes impressed the clerk. "You don't think he's been run over or murdered, do yu?" he answered in a half jocular vein. But the valet took him seriously.

       "Surely, you don't think that?"

       "Go on upstairs," the clerk answered carelessly. "Your master will be back before dinner, mark my words."

       But he was not. When evening came, John Murry was still absent and there had not been the slightest hint as to his whereabouts. The hotel authorities, after some hesitation, notified the police, and a search was instituted among the hospitals and morgue. But Murry was not found.

       The police continued their inquiries through the night but it was not until morning failed to reveal the smallest trace of the man that they accepted the conclusion that something was wrong. John Murry had disappeared as completely and suddenly as though the earth had opened and swallowed him.

       This was the situation when the chief invited me, as a visitor, to watch the operations of the department. Sergeant Mathews was about to leave for the hotel and I accepted his suggestion to accompany him. We found the usually well regulated office in a scene of confusion and excitement. The news of Murry's disappearance had leaked out to the papers, and large headlines had scattered the remarkable details broadcast. A morbidly curious crow was beginning to assemble in the corridor, and the manager was at his wits' end.

       The valet, the clerk, and other servants associated with "Number Eighteen" were hurriedly summoned to the office. The hour's cross-examination that followed, however, failed to give us the slightest theory.

       The first new fact came toward the end of the examination of Henry, the valet.

       "Did your master ever mention to you his plans for the future?" the sergeant asked.

       The valet hesitated. "I don't remember that he did, sir."

       "Come, speak up, man! Surely your master must have told you something!

       The valet shifted his position uneasily. "Well, he did say as how we might go to Belfast from here, but —"

       The sergeant interrupted him impatiently. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? Ten to one your master has gone on there and will write you your orders. Can't you put two and two together, you man with an infant's brain? You have given us all of this scare for nothing."

       The valet hung his head.

       "By the way," I broke in, "did you cash that check?"

       The servant glanced sharply in my direction. Was that a gleam of suspicion I saw in those restless gray eyes? The next instant they were lowered, and the man's stolid demeanor returned.

       "Of course I cashed the check."

       "Where is the money now?"

       "Waiting for my master. Do you want to take charge of it?"

       At the sudden question, Sergeant Reynolds hesitated and glanced uncertainly at me. The valet moved suddenly toward the door.

       "Shall I bring it, sir?"

       "Tut, tut, man, not so fast. The money belongs to Mr. Murry, not me. You are his servant. I'm not, if the money is gone when he returns, it will be time enough for the police to take a hand."

       "Then you think he will — return?"

       "Why not? You have made a mountain out of a mole hill with your silly blather. Can't a man go out of town without asking his servant?"

       "Then you would advise me to go to Belfast?"

       The sergeant considered. "I'll wire there and see where Murry can be found. Do you think you can wait without getting hysterical?"

       "Yes, sir. Can I go now?"

       "The quicker the better!" the policeman returned gruffly.

       It was perhaps two hours later that the Edinburgh headquarters received an answer to the Belfast telegram. It contained the two crisp sentences —

       "No trace of Murry here. Have you any farther instructions?"

       The sergeant took the message with a puzzled frown and went in search of the valet. At the Edinburgh Arms his frown deepened. John Henry had disappeared — as completely and suddenly as his master!

       The clerk accompanied the detective to the valet's quarters. One glance showed that they had been swept clear of the owner's possessions. The valet evidently had made the plans of his departure with a deliberate earnestness. Later, it was found that he had descended by the back stairs, with two bags.

       The sergeant strode from the room of the servant to the room of the master. The scene in the latter was in direct contrast to that in the former. John Murry possessed an extensive ward-robe and it remained exactly as he had left it on the afternoon of his disappearance. If he had left the city, he had evidently purchased a new outfit or gone without one.

       This was vividly emphasized in the sergeant's mind when he discussed the astonishing affair with me that evening. "Murry didn't know he was going. Henry did know he was going. I can't see a single point in common. Can you?"

       "Only this. We wouldn't have had to deal with this second disappearance if the first had not occurred. If the master was here, the valet also would be here!"

       The sergeant was silent. "Then we have two theories," he said at length. "The servant may have killed his master, and for the motive we have the 1,400 pounds. He may have had nothing to do with the vanishing of his employer. He may know nothing more about that than we do. His disappearance today may have been the result of sudden temptation and sudden impulse. What do you say?"

       "Find Murry. If he's dead, we'll probably have a charge of murder to spur us on. If he's alive, we'll have his thirst for vengeance to help us."

       But as it developed, we didn't. Not having the man to work from, we took his check. You will remember that it was made out on the Bank of Edinburgh and signed by John Stirling-Maxwell of London. If Maxwell was in the habit of giving checks like this to Murry, surely he must know something about the man. This was logical enough. But he didn't. And the amazing part of it all was that he didn't know anything about the check either.

       Maxwell looked at the document, the amount, the date, the signature, and the endorsement. Then he raised his eyebrows and threw the check away.

       "That's a clever man," he said drily.

       "Who?" said the examining policeman.

       "The man that wrote my name!" was the reply.

       "Isn't the signature yours?"

       "Certainly not. The check is a forgery!"

       "Oh!" the police official said, and made for the rogue's gallery with his description of John Murry on the printed slip in his vest pocket. But John Murry wasn't in the rogue's gallery. The summary of the situation was sent back to Edinburgh and the department went to work from the new angle. But it didn't throw any light on the other mystery.

       If Murry was a forger, so much the more reason why he should not give up his plunder. Again, if he was a criminal, what was the valet? And still again and more important than all, where and why had two men gone?

       I would like to say that it was due to skill that the final chapter in the mystery was obtained and the explanation revealed, but I can't. Some of our greatest police mysteries, you know, would always remain mysteries were it not for the perverse element of chance. So it was in this case. Some might dub it blind luck. Others might call it kismet. You may term it what you will, but if it hadn't been for the midnight card game in the Dublin tavern, the enigma of "master and man" might be an enigma to this day.

       Around the little green table with its heaped-up chips a circle of men were seated. All bore the marks of long continued dissipation. One, however, was farther under the influence of the empty wine bottles than the others, and he was talking in a loud, braggart's voice as he flourished in his pudgy hand a fat roll of bank notes.

       "C&%151;c—c—ome on old c—c—chaps," he hiccoughed. "P&3151;p—plenty more where this c3c—came from!"

       It was the missing valet, John Henry. One of the men on the other side of the little green table saw a significance in his words, which his companions did not. He leaned over with a confidential leer when the game was over and wormed the story out of Henry like a magnet drawing nails. The valet slept in the station house the rest of the night, for the card-player had an eye open for the reward for his capture. How much more he took from the valet's roll to reimburse him he didn't say.

       But Henry was not Murry and the valet didn't know any more about his master's whereabouts than you do. He hadn't seen him since that afternoon when he made his journey from the Edinburgh Arms with the mysterious check.

       "Who forged it?" the examining sergeant demanded.

       "I don't know," was the stolid response.

       "Who was Murry?" continued the official.

       "I don't know," came the stolid tones, and the valet went to Edinburgh Prison for twelve months.

       Here again, chance crept in. A few months later, a daring "check man" was arrested in London. One of the detectives who saw him at Scotland Yard, found an old memory stirring somewhere at the back of his brain. It was the Edinburgh case.

       "I'm glad we have you at last, John Murry!" he cried suddenly.

       The prisoner started as though he had received an electric shock, changed color, and then stretched out his feet with a low laugh.

       "That was one of the few occasions I made a fool of myself, gentlemen!"

       "You admit you are Murry?"

       "Why not? I hate to own it, for I lost one of the easiest games there I ever played in my life! Of course, you know that check wasn't good. But I took a chance on its passing, and it was a good chance, although I didn't know it at the time. When I sent that foot Henry, to the bank, I made up my mind suddenly to follow him. If they held him, they would be at the hotel after me before I could get away. Of course, Henry didn't have any idea where I was, and I waited in a door-way for a quarter of an hour for him to come out. But he didn't, and I was rattled. One of the clerks appeared suddenly and I thought he was going for the police. I turned down the side street and disappeared. If I had waited two minutes more, I would have met Henry and the 1,400 pounds. I knew it when I read the papers the next day, but I didn't dare to come back then. So I spent the next month kicking myself and taking nerve medicine. After all, though, Henry took the risk and I wasn't sorry he got the money!"

       "Then the game of valet was a bluff?"

       "Not at all. Henry has served me in that capacity for years. He's a better valet than anything else — and I am rather particular in that line! You see, I went to Edinburgh without him so as to impress the hotel people with my position. I rather think I succeeded, don't you? By the way, where is he?"

       "You'll see soon enough!" was the grim response.

       He did. Before the valet's term at Edinburgh had expired, Murry was consigned to the same prison, and master and man met again in the gray garb of the convict.

       "Will you have the green waist-coat or the blue waist-coat laid out in the morning, sir?" Henry asked with a grin.

       Murry considered. "I think I will wear the blue one!" he said at length.

[THE END.]

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