by Samuel Cliall White
(pseud for William Arthur Satchell, 1861-1942)

       It must seldom happen in a community so small as that of New Zealand that any serious crime remains for long unpunished, though the numerous ports, constantly visited by vessels of all descriptions, doubtless offer favourable chances to those who would shun the expiation of their offences against the law. Nevertheless, to all rules there are exceptions, and the case of the Stone Stable Mystery, which I am about to relate, is the most remarkable that has been brought within my personal experience.

       My first connection with this singular case was made one day in the autumn of 189—, some two or three years back. I had then been but recently appointed to the Auckland detective service, and up to the day of which I speak had had no opportunity of matching my wits against a criminal capable of putting off a really first-class job. It so happened, however, that on the previous evening a burglary of an unusually successful character had been perpetrated in the suburbs, and I was told off to make the usual inquiries.

       The scene of the offence was at Epsom, a suburb lying beyond Newmarket and Mount Eden, on the road to Onehunga. A lane, some three-quarters of a mile in length, known as Cave's Road, strikes down from the direction of Mount Eden on to the main road. It has a footpath on one side, the other being closed in by live hedges with occasional breaks, guarded by posts and rails, beyond which stretch paddocks, heavily littered with volcanic stones and for the most part grown over with low tea-tree and fern. On the side with the footpath are a number of gentlemen's houses, probably twenty in all. set at varying distances back from the road, and surrounded by a few acres of ground apiece.

       The house to which I had been directed was called Melton Villa, and about half-way along the lane I came to a gate bearing that inscription. A number of very fine specimens of the tall white tea-tree obscured my view of the house, but what was visible did not differ in any important particular from the dozen or so other residences I had passed in my approach to it. The building was of wood, on a stone foundation, containing probably ten to fifteen rooms, on the one floor; it had possibly been standing ten or twelve years, and had the appearance of having been freshly painted during the late summer. A carriage drive led from the gate round the left-hand side of the house, and I noticed the track of light wheels, which had evidently been only recently created. On the opposite side of the road, a little lower down, were the ruins of an old homestead, marking probably the home of the pioneer settler of a generation before. The steep, shingled roof was black with age and decay; every vestige of glass had long since vanished from the rotting sashes. Some twenty yards further back stood a second building, a barn-like structure of volcanic stone, roofed with iron. A number of large moss-grown peach trees, evidently in the last stage of senile decay, and the grey branches of a few fig trees, denuded of their lower leaves by cattle, completed the desolate little picture.

       Pushing open the gate, I made my way up the drive to the house. The front door beneath the roof of the verandah was closed. and fancying that there might be another entrance, I directed my steps round the corner. Here I found that a narrow lane, hardly wide enough for two light vehicles to pass one another, led down into Cave's Road, at a point directly opposite the ruined cottage. A hedge of the Eleagnus japonica, shut off this lane from the grounds. A small gate gave admittance from the lane, and immediately in front of it was a porch, over which was a lamp set with red glass. The name of Dr. Gresham was inscribed on a brass plate on the door.

       Ringing the bell, I was admitted by a trim maid-servant, who, on hearing my business, showed me into what I took to be the doctor's consulting-room. The place was small, and had a faint odour of chemicals. A well-filled bookcase occupied one wall, opposite it was a recess covered by a curtain. An escritoire stood by the window, and a few peculiarities about this at once attracted my notice. A number of the drawers were open, and in these the contents appeared to have been rudely disturbed; in one case the lock was twisted and apparently supported only by the screws at the bottom. A similar fate had befallen the lock of the flap, which was down, and here also everything was in disorder; paper, bundles of letters, and small drawers, were tossed about in confusion, while a broken cash-box lay bottom upwards on the top of the rest.

       I was still absorbed in contemplating the wreck when the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was not more than twenty years of age. Her face was pale and showed traces of grief or anxiety, and the grey eyes had a suggestion of recent tears, though her manner as she addressed was calm and collected.

       "I am sorry my brother is out, Detective Hazlett," she said, "but perhaps you will be able to wait until he returns; he has only gone a short distance to a patient in the neighbourhood."

       "Certainly," I replied, "if it is necessary, I have the honour of addressing —"

       "Miss Gresham," she said, "I am Dr. Gresham's sister."

       I bowed. "Perhaps, Miss Gresham," I said, "you may be able to give me particulars of the robbery. I am right, I suppose, in concluding that the thief or thieves visited this room."

       "Yes," she replied, looking at the escritoire. "My brother has left his desk very nearly as he found it this morning. They did not get into the other part of the house for some reason. This room, you may have noticed, has been built on to the other part of the house; my brother had it added when we first came here, and the door connecting with the main building was originally an outer door. That may also account for the fact that we heard nothing."

       "Then you have an idea at what time the affair took place?"

       "No. We found both the outer door and the door of this room open this morning, but the locks do not appear to be injured. My brother believes that he locked them both when he came into the house at nine o'clock, but the act has become so much a habit with him that he cannot actually recollect doing so. Still, he thinks that if he had forgotten to lock the doors he would have recollected it before he retired for the night."

       "And that was at what time?"

       "About a quarter to twelve."

       We were now standing together over the escroitoire. "Keys evidently failed them here," I said, picking up the cash-box. "Do you know what this contained?"

       At this moment I heard the gate swing to and a quick step come along the concrete path, then there was the click of a key in the outer door.

       "That is Dr. Gresham now," said the girl; "he will be able to answer your question."

       The doctor was a young man of seven or eight and twenty, of medium height and fair complexion. A pair of cheerful blue eyes lighted a cheerful countenance.

       "Well," he said, with a quick glance, "they have gone through me, as you observe."

       I handed him my credentials, which he glanced over. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Hazlett," he said, "though I would have preferred an introduction in a less expensive fashion."

       "What do you suppose is the amount of your loss, doctor?" I asked.

       "Goodness knows!" he replied. "Something between thirty and forty pounds. A couple of my patients took it into their heads to pay me yesterday morning, otherwise the loss would have been trivial."

       "Is there anything else missing?" I asked.

       "No," he replied slowly, his eye wandering over the desk, "not so far as I have discovered. In point of fact, there is nothing else of any value."

       "And the money," I inquired, "is there any possibility of identifying any of it?"

       "Not the faintest," he replied cheerfully, "unless either of the patients I spoke of should happen to have kept a record of the numbers of the notes, which is not likely; all the rest was in single notes and gold."

       I made some further inquiries and turned to leave. "The case appears to me quite hopeless," said the doctor, as he showed me out into the lane. "In point of fact, I merely rang up the police as a matter of duty — still, one never knows."

       "No," I replied. "Fortunately, the police have sources of information which are independent of ordinary clues, and it is quite possible we may lay our friend by the heels yet; the recovery of the money, of course, is a different matter."

       The doctor laughed, and, bidding me good-day, turned back into the house.

       A light trap with a man-servant in it was being driven at a slow walk up the lane. I turned in the opposite direction, and walked slowly down the road, examining the ground carefully as I went. Discovering nothing, I paused at the end of the lane, reflecting on the steps to be taken next. The ruined cottage, of which I have already spoken, again attracted my attention, and it struck me that the spot was a likely one to have been visited by the thieves either prior or subsequent, to their attack on the house. There was a small window, high up in the stable, which would be a good point from which to observe the habits of the residents in the doctor's house.

       A mere glance through the broken sashes of the cottage was sufficient, and I made my way to the stable.

       The entrance was from the rear, and I found a good door secured by chain and padlock. The hoop of the lock was pressed home, but on trying it I found it to be unlocked. Liberating the chain, I threw open the door. The place had a musty smell. It was about thirty feet long by fifteen feet wide, and was strongly built of stone, with a cobbled floor. The floor of the loft above was some twelve feet from the ground, extending along for two-thirds of the building, where it ceased, the remainder being open to the roof. Half a dozen battens nailed across the studs gave access to this part of the building, and after a glance round I made the ascent.

       Some fresh straw, which appeared to have been recently trodden down, was heaped in one corner by the window; near it was a candle-end fixed to the floor, the wax looking fresh, as though recently melted. A nail had been driven on either side of the top of the window-frame, and from one of these depended a sack, and there was a corresponding nail-hole in the opposite corner of the sack. From the window a good view was obtainable of the road, the lane, and the doctor's house.

       Discovering nothing further, I descended again to the stable. The only remnant of the original wooden fittings was a bench about two feet wide and thirty inches high running across the end. On this stood a square tin, which on examination I found to be a picnic-case, divisible into two portions. Save for a few crumbs, it was empty. There was a slight gathering of rust in the corners of the bottom compartment, but with this exception the tin had the appearance of being in daily use.

       I confess that each of my discoveries so far had only succeeded in more completely mystifying me. That the stable had been occupied recently — perhaps was still in occupation — was obvious; but had this any connection with the burglary of Dr. Gresham's consulting-room? My experience so far had not brought me in contact with criminals who were in the habit of carrying expensive picnic cases along with the other implements of their trade.

       But the crux of the problem was yet to come. I had replaced the picnic-case on the bench, and was standing back contemplating it, when my eye was attracted to something white sticking in the skirting-board below. I found this object to be an envelope, and it had either been placed or, more probably, had fallen accidentally in such a manner that it was held by one corner against the front of the bench. It was sealed, stamped, and directed, in what seemed to me either a hurried or agitated manner, to —

ROBERT ASHER, Solicitor, High Street.

       A further search of the floor in this vicinity led to one more find, after which I was able to discover nothing. This was a worn leather pocket-case, empty, which, owing partly to the darkness of the stable, and partly to the similarity of colour between it and the earth between the cobbles, I had not at first noticed.

       Leaving the picnic-case, I took possession of the other two articles, and fastening the stable door as I had found it, made my way back to the doctor's house.

       As I entered the lane I caught sight of the trap, now containing two figures, disappearing over the hill at the other end. I had evidently missed the doctor, but I determined to go on, notwithstanding, and see if I could elicit any information from Miss Gresham.

       The young lady seemed surprised to see me back so soon, and I now noticed what at first had escaped me, that she was dressed in mourning. Possibly, I thought, the pallor and unhappiness of her countenance might be due to the loss of some near relative. Apologising for my intrusion, I handed her the pocket-cease, asking her if she could identify it as having belonged to her brother.

       "Yes," she said at once, "that is Dr. Gresham's. I know it by these silk stitches at the back, which I put in myself."

       "And this," I said, handing her the letter; "but it is hardly likely —–"

       My words were arrested by a sudden whiteness that swept across the girl's face; she swayed, and, but for my arm, would have fallen. I assisted her to a chair.

       "Thank you," she said, unsteadily. "I have not been very well lately."

       "Perhaps," I said, embarrassed, "it will be more convenient if I call when Dr. Gresham is back. Will you allow me to ring for assistance?"

       "Oh, no," she said, rousing herself; "I assure you it is nothing. You were saying — about this letter?"

       "I found it with the pocket-book in the old stone stable across the road. There is also a square picnic-case there, divided into two compartments — have you any knowledge of such a thing?"

       "No," she replied, "we have nothing of the kind."

       "There is something peculiar about the stable," I said. "Is it supposed to be in use?"

       "It has not been used for the last eighteen months," she replied; "not since we first came to live here."

       "To whom does it belong?" I asked.

       Again the girl seemed to show agitation. "To Mr Barrow," she said, at last, in a curious, hesitating voice.

       "Does he reside in the neighbourhood?"

       "He did," she replied, "he boarded at the third house from this; but he is gone."

       "You think, then, the stable has not been entered with his knowledge and consent?"

       "I feel certain of that," she replied, "but why do you ask these questions?"

       She looked at me with eagerness, and as it seemed to me a suspicion of dread.

       "I hardly know," I answered. "I am puzzled by several things — the appearance the place presents of having been occupied, the presence of the picnic-case, the pocket-book, and the letter. Are you acquainted with Robert Asher?"

       "No," she said, "I do not know him."

       I turned and took up my hat, possessed by a feeling of distrust. It was quite evident to me that something material lay behind the girl's agitation, something which she was desirous of concealing; that it was in any way connected with the robbery I could hardly believe, yet how otherwise was it to be accounted for? I resolved before returning to town to pursue the matter a little further by endeavouring to obtain the present address of Mr Barrow.

       The third house from the doctor's proved to be a small villa standing close to the road. The door was opened to me by an elderly woman in a widow's cap, who, on hearing my business, invited me inside.

       "Are you a friend of Mr Barrow's?" she asked.

       I explained that I was unacquainted with the gentleman, but desired to interview him on a matter of business.

       "I wish I could tell you," she replied. "We thought very highly of Mr Barrow, as indeed did everyone who knew him. The only fault I ever had to find with him was his manner of leaving my house."

       "And how was that?" I asked.

       "He gave me no notice," she replied, "nor did he drop the slightest hint of any desire to change his lodgings. He just walked out one evening and never came back; nor have I heard of him since. It will be a month to-morrow since he went. With other young men one might be able to come to a conclusion, but Mr Barrow was different. He was a gentleman, if ever there was one, and his going away like that has puzzled me more than I can say."

       The field of my investigations now showed signs of enlarging with a vengeance; I made no effort to bring it back into a narrower compass.

       "Perhaps you can give me the information I require," I said. "There is an old stone stable along the road which I am told belongs to Mr Barrow; have you any knowledge whether he had given permission to anyone to use it for any purpose?"

       "No," she replied, looking puzzled, "it was kept locked. He used to keep a horse there at one time, but that is months ago, and it has never been used since. Were you wanting to rent it?"

       "I was making inquiries," I said, vaguely, as I rose. "By the way, what became of Mr Barrow's luggage?"

       "It is still here," she replied, "just as he left it. Nothing has been disturbed."

       "And you have made no inquiries whatever during the interval?"

       "None," she said, becoming agitated. "Oh, sir, do you think I have done wrong? Is there more in this than we think? Miss Gresham —–" She stopped suddenly and bit her lip.

       "You were mentioning Miss Gresham," I said. "As it happens, she was the lady who directed me here."

       "Here!" she exclaimed, "to this house! But Miss Gresham is here every day, sometimes twice a day — surely you must be mistaken. If anyone should know where Mr Barrow is now it is Miss Gresham."

       I pricked up my ears. "How is that?" I asked.

       "Because," she said, "they were engaged to be married. Poor, poor girl! This has been a terrible blow to her."

       I repeated my self. "Mrs Cowan," I said. "I may as well be frank with you. I am a police detective sent to inquire into a robbery which has been committed at Dr. Gresham's house. No doubt you have heard of it?"

       She assented nervously.

       "Tell me," I continued, "all you know about this matter, and if I can help you to ascertain the present whereabouts of Mr Barrow I will do so. When Miss Gresham called here for the first time after your lodger's departure, did she appear surprised?"

       "Yes; she was struck speechless."

       "And she called frequently afterwards to inquire if you had any news of him — every day, you tell me, and some times more than once — did she ever suggest any explanation?"

       "No; she believed in him, and nothing could shake her. But she told me that her brother, Dr. Gresham, took a different view — that he thought Mr Barrow had run away to avoid the marriage, and he was very angry in consequence. The doctor is very proud of his sister. I have often thought that it was a good thing for him that the elder sister died instead of Agnes, for I believe it would have broken his heart to lose her."

       "They are in mourning for an elder sister?"

       "Yes; she died in November — four or five months ago. She had never been strong, but she went off very suddenly at the end. Poor Annie, it was a great shock to them."

       I rose, feeling nothing further was to be gained from Mrs Cowan. It was natural. I thought, that a woman should be inclined to make a mystery of a man's sudden disappearance, but my knowledge of human nature, led me rather to side with the conclusion arrived at by Dr. Gresham, who had doubtless had opportunities of judging the character of his sister's lover which were denied to both the women. Yet, as I made my way back to the office, I could not avoid speculating on the agitation Miss Gresham had shown on seeing the letter now in my pocket.

       The inspector heard my report with a mind evidently distracted by other business. "I fancy," he said, when I had concluded, "that the trail has been crossed; there are probably two sets of circumstances here. No complaint has been made of this man's disappearance, and in the absence of that it is not a fact of which the police can take cognisance. I will put Moulton on to make inquiries about the two large banknotes — we shall probably have to arrest someone; but he will see to that. Go to this Robert Asher and give him the letter and ask for an explanation. There is certainly something that requires accounting for there. Report to me again in twenty-four hours, or sooner if you hear anything important."

       I turned into High Street, and a few steps brought me to the doorway on which the name I sought was inscribed. Asher's office, I found, was up a flight of narrow stairs at the back of the building. I knocked, and was bidden to enter. The room was small and dingy, uncarpeted, with a few ordinary articles of furniture. A table stood in the centre, and at this a man was seated, his face towards me.

       "Sit down," he said, pointing with a quill to a chair opposite him; "I will attend to you in a moment."

       I obeyed, and took stock of the person before me, as he continued busily transcribing some document that lay beside him. He was probably not more than thirty-five years of age, but was already partially bald. There was a wisp of black hair in the centre of his narrow forehead. His features were sharp and his complexion darkly sallow. His eyes, I noticed presently, when he raised them to ask my business, were singularly light in colour, and offered an odd contrast to the general tone of his hair and complexion.

       "I happened to be in Cave's Road this morning," I began; "probably you know the place?"

       He laid down the pen he had been holding, with exaggerated care, and swung slightly round towards me. "Yes," he said.

       "My business," I continued, feeling in my pocket, "took me into the old stable opposite Dr. Gresham's; while there I came across a letter which appears to be addressed to you, but has never been posted." I laid it down on the blotting-pad before him as I spoke.

       He did not immediately touch it, but sat looking down at it in silence. "In the stable," he said at last, "that is strange."

       "It struck me as being strange," I remarked.

       He looked up at me quickly, then, taking the letter, cut it open and walked with it to the window.

       Nearly five minutes went by before he returned to his seat. It was obvious to me that the man was greatly agitated; the hand that held the letter trembled visibly, and he seemed at a loss for speech. He glanced at me once or twice and his lips moved, but still he said nothing.

       "You must pardon my natural curiosity,' I said at last, "but possibly it may occur to you as only right that I should know how the letter came to be there."

       "I admit you have a right to ask," he said huskily, "but I am unable to tell you."

       "Does that mean that you do not know?" I asked incredulously.

       "I do not know."

       "Does the letter offer no explanation of that singular circumstance?" I asked.

       "Pardon me," he said rising. "I have

       to thank you for the trouble you have taken, but as I have already told you that I do not know how the letter came to be where you discovered it, you must see the indelicacy of inquiring further."

       I was nonplussed. The only course that now seemed open to me was to ask him to accompany me to the Inspector, but that I was loth to take. If he consented all would be well; but if, on the other hand, he refused, then I should have put him on his guard without any corresponding advantage. I judged that he would refuse, and therefore got to my feet. "You do not give me much encouragement to become your postman, Mr Asher," I said lightly.

       "If I could reward you in another way," he said, eagerly, "and your acceptance would imply your silence —–"

       I shook my head, and wishing him good-day, took my departure. As the door closed behind me I heard him walk hurriedly across the room towards the window, as though he were about to read his mysterious letter again.

       In the street I met the Inspector, and reported the result of my interview with Asher. "We may have to arrest him," he said, "but since I saw you it has occurred to me that the stable may be being made use of by a gang who intend to exploit the neighbourhood. I should like you to go out there to-night and keep a watch on the place. Take another man with you, and be careful how you act."

       That evening, between nine and ten, I left the tram in the Epsom Road, and made my way down the lane into Cave's Road. Dr. Gresham's lamp was burning brightly, but the consulting-room was in darkness. My assistant had already received his instructions, and having satisfied myself that he was in the position I had assigned him — at the point where Cave's Road leaves the main road — I returned to the foot of the lane, opposite the stable, and took up a post in the dense shadow of the trees overhanging from the Doctor's garden. An hour wore by. The moon

       had set early, and the night, though clear, was intensely dark. There were few wayfarers in this lonely neighbourhood, and, with the exception of a pair of lovers, to whom the solitude of the spot was doubtless its greatest charm, no one passed whose passage was not followed at a greater or less interval by the swinging-to of one of the gates along the road. By long fixing my eyes on the point, I had at length become enabled to discern the loom of the stable against the sky — nothing seemed stirring in that direction.

       It must have been close upon eleven o'clock, when, having stepped from my hiding-place to stretch my limbs, I became aware of the odour of tobacco close at hand. There was a slight sound near me, and in the next moment I was startled to find a man close at my elbow. He was evidently wearing slippers or light shoes, and had on what appeared to be a sleeved waistcoat: he wore no hat, and from his general appearance. I judged him to be a man-servant, probably the one I had seen driving the Doctor's trap."

       "Looking for the ghost again?" he asked, in the tone of one ready to indulge in a chat.

       "The ghost?" I said, puzzled.

       "Oh, I beg your pardon," he said in another voice, drawing back. "I took you for Mrs Pattison's man."

       "Is Mrs Pattison's man a ghost hunter?" I asked with sleepy indifference, intending to put him at his ease.

       The young man, however, seemed suspicious. He struck a match as though for the purpose of relighting his pipe, and let the flame illuminate my face. "You are out rather late, governor," he said, as he extinguished the match.

       "I haven't far to go for a bed," I said, yawning.

       "Oh," he replied, sharply, "where's that?"

       "Just to Mrs Cowan's along the road."

       His voice, when he spoke again, showed more friendliness. "It's a nice night for a stroll," he said.

       "Yes," I responded, "your friend would have a good chance with his ghost to-night."

       He laughed. "Well," he said, "we may laugh at it, but the story's pretty rum as he tells it."

       "Oh," I said, determined not to show too much eagerness.

       "It's about three weeks ago that it began," the man continued, reflectively. "The first thing he saw was a light in the old stable window about midnight. He saw the light two or three times before he saw the figure."

       "And what was the figure like?"

       "It was a man, fairly tall; his face was bandaged and muffled in white cloths. According to Rogers, he used to turn up about midnight and glide up and down the road, groaning and wringing his hands."

       "How long did this continue?" I asked.

       "I don't know how many times it happened," he replied, "but it seems to have stopped about ten days ago. I used to laugh at Rogers and ask him how many beers he had had, until he got quite scotty about it; so that night he came along in a state of great excitement, and knocked me up. 'Come down and see for yourself,' he said. I went back with him, but there was nothing to be seen, and for three or four nights afterwards I kept watch with him, but nothing ever came along, so that I don't know what to think about it. Well, I'll be getting back to bed — good-night."

       "Good-night," I responded, moving in the direction of my supposed lodgings. I waited a few moments, then, returning to the lane, crept up under the shadow of the hedge, until I was close to the Doctor's gate. I heard the man moving about on the other side of the hedge; first the window rattled, then there was the sound of a door being shaken against the dock, followed by footsteps retiring until they became inaudible. Satisfied that my late companion was, as I had supposed, the doctor's servant, I was on the point of returning to my post of observation when I heard a step coming quickly down the lane. I drew back into the deep shadow and waited. The light from the Doctor's lamp fell brightly across the roadway, so that any figure passing the gate must become for a moment clearly visible. The person approaching seemed to be in a hurry, for I heard him stumbling against the stones, as though indifferent to the roughness of the road. His passage through the track of light was swift, but his face, turned for a moment towards the lamp and consequently in my direction, gave me the information I sought. Wrapped in a heavy coat, and with his hat pulled down about his ears, I recognised Robert Asher.

       My resolution was promptly made. I slipped noiselessly through the gate, and ran down the grassy margin of the drive, and across the lawn to the corner of the garden, at the bottom of the lane, where I crouched down under the low stone wall. Arrived at the corner, Asher paused and stood perfectly still for fully a minute, then I heard him cross the road. As soon as he was gone, I scaled the wall and ran as fast as my legs would carry me to the end of Cave's Road. My assistant came out quickly from the shadow, and we returned together to a point within view of the window of the stable. Rapid as my progress had been, a light was already showing, but in the same instant that we caught sight of it, it was suddenly blotted out.

       "Now," I said, "is your lantern burning? Then, come on."

       We made our way quickly to the stable; the door was shut, but there was a sound of someone moving about in the loft. I opened the door quietly, and we went in. A strong light was glowing in the part of the roof which extended beyond the floor of the loft, and, as we stood together in silence awaiting developments, a foot came over the edge, and Asher, carrying a candle-end in his hand, descended with his back towards us. At the bottom he turned, and, either purposely, or in his astonishment at finding us, dropped the candle. My assistant instantly flooded him with the rays of the lantern.

       "Good evening, Mr Asher," I said, drily; "are you looking for your letters?"

       He looked at us, and at the door beyond, but offered no reply.

       "Can you give any explanation of your presence here?" I asked.

       He laughed nervously. "No doubt," he said, "it seems peculiar. You are, I suppose, a police officer."

       "Detective Hazlett," I replied. "The police have treated you leniently so far, Mr Asher, but you must see that they have now no alternative."

       "What do you propose?" he asked, his mouth twitching.

       "It is my duty to arrest you," I replied.

       "On what charge?"

       I reflected a moment. "On the charge of being found on these premises without lawful excuse." I then gave him the usual caution and laid my hand on his shoulder.

       He shook it off irritably. "I warn you," he said, "that you are making a mistake; but I will accompany you to the station, and there is no need for you to touch me. Of course, it is quite evident to me that the offence you mention is not the one with which you intend to charge me ultimately."

       "What makes you think that?" I asked, lightly.

       "I am a lawyer," he said, "and know the ways of the police."

       We took him to the station and searched him,but, with the exception of a bunch of keys and some money, found nothing upon him. It was too late to find bail, being past midnight, and he was confined for the night in the cells. In the morning, before the Court opened, I made a complete search of his office, but here again the result was disappointing. With the exception of one discovery, I left no wiser than I entered. Although I went carefully through the whole of his neatly-kept correspondence, I could find no trace of the letter I had handed him the previous day, nor could I find anything at all which could in any way implicate him in the burglary of Dr. Gresham's house. One thing, however, I did find, and this was the will of Arthur Barrow, settler, of Cave's Road, Epsom. It was duly signed and witnessed, and was dated some two months previously. By this testament, the whole of Barrow's estate, which, by the schedule attached, I judged to be considerable, was devised to Miss Agnes Gresham, absolutely in the event of her marrying and having children, but in the event of her dying childless, then it was to revert to Robert Asher. The estate was subject to two legacies, one of £100 to Mrs Cowan, and the other of £2,000 to the testator's half-brother, Robert Asher, solicitor.

       This document convinced me at once that it was useless to proceed with the charge against Asher, and when, an hour or two later, the case was called, the police asked leave to withdraw it. To this the prisoner raised no objection, and the case was accordingly dismissed.

To be continued.

       It was with considerable mortification that I confessed to myself my absolute failure in this, the first matter entrusted to me. I fully expected to be hauled over the coals by the Inspector, but, to my surprise, nothing of the sort happened. On the contrary, he expressed gratification at the way I had handled the delicate business of Asher's arrest, and proceeded to give me further instructions. "The matter of Barrow's disappearance," he said, "has now assumed a serious aspect. I have this morning received a complaint from a Mrs Cowan, in whose house he appears to have lodged, setting out her anxiety as to his whereabouts. The most curious point she mentions is the fact that he left no instructions about his letters, and they continue to arrive. Bills for small amounts have also been rendered, and persons have called for payment. Now, we have very good evidence that Barrow was in a position to pay. I have found out that he has a large balance at the National Bank, which has not been drawn against for a month; there are also securities there for several thousands of pounds. No sane man, who desired for any reason to quit the country, would leave his affairs in such a condition as that. Of course, it is quite feasible to suppose that his absence from home has a simple interpretation, and that he may return or be heard from at any moment; but from what this lady says of his consideration for the feelings of others — which in this case he must have known would be deeply injured by the sort of silence he has maintained — I am inclined to think otherwise. As for Asher, it is evident he knows something of the matter. I shall have him watched continuously; either he is in communication with Barrow, who, for some inexplicable reason, is in hiding, or ——" the inspector broke off with a grave closing of lips.

       I will not weary the leader with a recapitulation of every detail. A week went by entirely destitute of results. Nothing suspicious was discovered in the conduct of Robert Asher, and, so far as we knew, he paid no further visits to the stable. I was nearly at the end of my resources when the memory of the story of Mrs Pattison's servant recurred to me, and I determined to pay him a visit. The young man, so far as I could judge, was sober and truth-telling; he told a simple narrative, and never diverged from it. The light in the stable window was a reality often repeated; so was the muffled figure that groaned and wrung its hands. I felt that here was a clue of an important character, but it was in the nature of the riddle of the Sphinx: once solved, the mystery might immediately unravel itself. But how to solve it?

       Though I have had frequent occasions to allude to the stable, and it must already have assumed considerable proportions in the reader's view, it was not until this stage of my inquiries that the place began to take shape in my mind, as the heart and centre of the whole mystery, round which every fact I had so far discovered appeared to revolve. When I had once grasped this significance of the place, my course became clear: I would take no further steps until the whole building had been thoroughly and minutely examined. It was with no pronounced anticipations of success that I called in my assistant, and set to work — certainly the ghastly discovery which the next hour was to bring forth never for a moment suggested itself to our minds. The examination of the loft was soon made. Not so much as a shirt button rewarded our efforts; beyond the straw and the sack which had been used to drape the window, there was nothing moveable in the place.

       When we descended to the stable itself, my first act was to order the lowering of the wooden shutter, which closed a large, unglazed window to the left of the door. This gave us a sufficiency of light for our purpose, and we began our search with the floor. The only result was a screw, three inches in length. It lay close to the bench, and had been trodden in between the stones; one side of it was slightly stained with rust, but from its appearance I judged that it could not have lain in its present position any great length of time.

       We now turned our attention to the bench, which, as I have already stated, ran across the length of the stable, being firmly built against the end wall. The front was constructed of upright match-board, finished off with a narrow skirting at the bottom. The whole of this was sound and immovable. The top was composed of wide boards, an inch and a half thick, but in scrutinising these I now observed one circumstance which had previously escaped my attention. The boards running from either end were cut off in two places, thus leaving what had apparently once been a bin, about four feet in length, somewhere near the centre of the bench. This part, however, was as securely fastened as any of the rest. To say that this fact aroused my suspicion would probably be to exaggerate my feelings, but my curiosity was at any rate quickened. For some time we were unable to discover the manner in which this lid was secured, but a careful search revealed three spots more or less round in outline, and of a colour closely resembling the wood, which showed at equal distances apart along the front of the bin. My assistant began scraping at the centre spot with his penknife.

       "This place has a terrible bad smell," he said, suddenly.

       I had myself been for some time conscious of an unpleasant odour. "The rats have probably got under the bench and died there," I said.

       He left off scraping, and began to close his pocket knife. "The putty's as hard as iron," he said; "this place must have been sealed down a good many years."

       I turned over the stuff he had broken out, and found that its hardness was accounted for by the fact that it was not putty, but brown sealing-wax.

       I think the idea that there was something wrong now came simultaneously to both of us. Without a word we began digging at the sealing-wax until it was removed from all three holes, and the tops of the screws that held the lid down became visible.

       "Run somewhere and borrow a strong screwdriver," I said, "one that will draw a three inch screw."

       During my assistant's absence I compared the head of the screw I had found on the ground with those fixed in the lid of the bin, and found, as I had expected, that they tallied exactly. One by one we drew the bright screws from their bed, and laid them carefully down on the bench; then we lifted the lid on its hinges, and threw it back against the wall. A fetid, sickening odour issued from the open bin. I drew my assistant back and out into the open air. "Go and fetch Dr. Gresham," I said.

       In about five minutes he returned, the doctor with him, and again we all went inside. It was now possible to approach the bin and look down on the horrible object inside. To my dying day I shall be unable to rid my memory of that ghastly spectacle.

       The doctor gave one glance, and drew back, white to the lips. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "is it possible?"

       "Do you identify him?" I asked.

       "Yes," he replied; "it is poor Barrow. But why in heaven's name should he have done this?"

       "What?" I asked; then his meaning occurred to me, and I pointed silently to the screws and the Holes in the lid of the bin.

       At first he looked puzzled, then my meaning seemed to dawn on him, and a stern look came into his eyes. "A great deal may depend on how we proceed now," he said. "I should like further medical assistance, and it may prove advantageous to the police to be more strongly represented. My dread is lest, by acting precipitously, we may destroy or overlook something which might afterwards have proved of advantage had we observed it at the time."

       To this I agreed, and it was thus not till an hour later that the body of the murdered man was removed from its resting place and examined. I will not sicken the reader with the details that were afterwards sworn to at the coroner's inquest. It will suffice to say that on the left cheekbone was a kind of contused wound, which might have been the result of a blow before death; there was no other external mark of violence. The rest is told in the verdict of the coroner's jury, which was as follows: "We find that the deceased met his death from poisoning by morphia; that after his death, or while in a state of unconsciousness, his body was placed in the bin, and the lid screwed down; and we return a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown."

       In the investigation of capital crimes, the first crucial point is usually the question of motive, and it was here that the police encountered their greatest difficulty. Though, according to the will of the murdered man, it was shown that three persons would be benefited by his death, yet, except in the instance of Robert Asher, it was impossible to show that they had any previous knowledge of the fact. The one exception was indeed notable, on account of the suspicion which had previously attached to Asher, but in his examination before the coroner this suspicion was, or appeared to be, explained away. He produced the whole of his correspondence with his half-brother, including one final and startling letter which I shall allude to in a moment. From this correspondence, it appeared that they had been on uninterruptedly friendly terms. Many of the letters were dated two years back, from Thursday Island, where Barrow had been on business connected with the estate of his deceased father; some were merely notes on trivial matters, written since his return to the colony; a few were in connection with the will. None of them were regarded as of any importance by the police. The final letter was of a character utterly different from the rest. It was brief and pregnant; the writing was blotted and tremulous, and sometimes barely decipherable — it spoke clearly of the mortal agony of the writer. There was neither date nor address, and the envelope was not produced. This, however, Asher averred, was the letter I had found in the stable, and presented to him at his office. It began abruptly, and was as follows:

       "Ah unspeakable calamity has overtaken me — so unutterably horrible that I dare not write it, lest madness should seize me at sight of the words. Oh, my God, Robert, those people in Thursday Island! I am a maniac now as I stare at the terrific pictures in my brain. Come to me at the old stone stable to-night; knock three times at the door and I shall know it is you. God has deserted me, but do not you."

       A profound sensation was produced in court by the reading of this letter. Asked whether he could offer any explanation of it, Asher professed entire disability, neither did he understand the allusion to "those people in Thursday Island." Further questioning showed him also unable to throw any light upon how the letter came to be in the position in which the police found it, but he offered the opinion that the murder was committed shortly after the letter was written, and suggested that it had fallen into the skirting-board either from the pocket of the deceased or the hands of the murderer. Much time was spent in the cross-examination of this witness, but nothing fresh could be elicited from him.

       Dr. Gresham's evidence was divisible into two parts. He agreed with the other medical men that death was due to the injection of morphia in large quantities into one of the limbs. It might have been self-injected, but the deceased could not have screwed himself down in the bin. The body was perfectly healthy — that of a man in the full enjoyment of life. He thought it possible that the deceased might have been stunned, and inoculated while in a state of unconsciousness. He had known Arthur Barrow for many years; he had known him intimately for the last twelve months, during which time he generally saw him daily. Deceased was to have been married to witness' sister, and the date of the marriage was fixed for May. He knew Robert Asher only slightly. He could suggest no explanation of Barrow's letter. He had noticed nothing peculiar in deceased's manner on the occasion he saw him last. In fact, Barrow had seemed in unusually boisterous spirits. That was on the 26th of February.

       The girl, Agnes Gresham, proved, as was only to be expected, the most unsatisfactory witness. Her face was deathly pale; in her eyes was the pitiable look of some hunted and stricken creature; she seemed stunned into a state of half-unconsciousness with her surroundings. She knew the deceased, Arthur Barrow, and had known him for some years. She was engaged to him at the time of his death. They were to have been married in July. (Witness afterwards corrected herself, and said the date fixed was the fourth of September, but, on hearing her brother's evidence read by the coroner, she again corrected herself, and agreed that the arrangement was for May.) She had never had a quarrel with deceased, and they were on the best of terms until their last parting. She remembered the 26th of February — that was the date on which she saw deceased for the last time. He came to lunch, and stayed until three o'clock. There was nothing unusual in his manner; he was in good spirits. He was to have come again in the evening, but he did not come. He did not come again. She never saw him again. She had heard the letter read in court, but could offer no explanation of it.

       These notes of the evidence of the principal witnesses are taken almost verbatim from the reports of the coroner's inquest. Two or three other persons gave evidence, including Mrs Cowan and Mrs Pattison's manservant, but, as they added nothing to what has already been related, I will not weary the reader by reproducing them.

       I am now at the end of my story. Over two years have elapsed, and no further light has been thrown on the mystery. A reward of £200 was offered by the Government for evidence which should lead to the conviction of the murderer, but the amount remains unclaimed. All the actors in the tragedy are still to be found in the same places, with the exception of Robert Asher, who is now practising his profession in another city. A suspicion, which he found it impossible to live down, continued to overhang him as long as he remained in Auckland. Dr. Gresham employed an agent for some time in Thursday Island, in the hope of finding an interpretation to the mysterious allusion in Barrow's last letter, but this also failed, and I think he has long since given up hope of dragging the truth from the mass of mystery in which it lies buried.

       For my part, I have not entirely abandoned hope. I believe that what the ingenuity of one man can conceal, the ingenuity of another may discover, and I live in the belief that "Murder will out."

(To be concluded.)

PART II.

       Little did I think when I penned the words "Murder will out" that within six months I should again take up my pen to demonstrate the correctness of that adage, and to relate in its completeness the story of a crime as cruel and subtle as ever claimed the attention of a criminal court. The longer we live the more convinced do we become of the veracity of that proverb, which declares that it is always the unexpected which happens. The sequence of circumstances which appears to us in accordance with the laws of probability meets a daily refutation in the actual course of our lives. The cloud whence we anticipated the bolt of the lightning melts harmlessly from our horizon, and out of the clear sunlight stalks disaster. In our youth and ignorance the strength of our hopes seems a direction to Fate; in our age we recognise it as a challenge.

       The mystery of Barrow's death, surrounded by so many unusual and unaccountable circumstances, for long held a fascination over my mind. Long after the facts had been forgotten by the general public, I continued to study the case point by point, seeking everywhere for the clue which, being found, should enable me to unravel the tangled knot, but it was not until the mystery began to lose interest for me, also, that the first streak of light filtered its way through the darkness. To begin, then, at the beginning.

       During my three years' residence in Auckland I had become acquainted with a family of the name of Gray, who resided in the vicinity of Otahuhu. Mr Gray was a dairy farmer of the good old English type, ruddy and hale, and blessed with a family of six stalwart sons and seven handsome daughters. The sons had mostly left the paternal roof to seek livings for themselves, but two of the younger boys remained, and there was also a hired man, to whom was usually entrusted the task of driving the milk cart on its rounds. The two elder girls were married, three were employed in various occupations, and the remaining two, mere children, lived at home. Mary Gray, in my opinion, was the flower of the flock, and, not to distract the reader's attention too much towards my own affairs, I will state briefly — what I could find pleasure in relating at length — the fact that we were engaged to be married.

       Mary was a duly trained and qualified nurse. She had spent a few years at the Auckland Hospital, but was now practising her profession independently, being in great demand by the doctors, more especially in cases where everything depended on strict adherence to orders in the minutest particular. In consequence of the nature of her employment, her changes of residence were frequent, and with the best will in the world, I had the greatest difficulty in following my bird of passage from one bed of suffering to another. Our meetings were infrequent and brief, and it often happened that on those occasions when our duties permitted us to fully recount our adventures to one another, my girl's budget of news contained the records of two or three patients.

       It thus happened that Mary had been resident nearly three weeks at Dr. Gresham's house before that fact came to my knowledge.

       "I want to tell you something, Jim," she said, drawing closer to me as we sat one Sunday afternoon among the bushes on the bank of the creek. "And I hope you won't be cross with me when you hear it."

       "Tell me, then," I said; "I will try to keep my diabolic temper in check."

       She gave me a little squeeze, but there was a slight rise of colour in her cheek as she turned to me.

       "I believe," she said, hesitatingly, "that Dr. Gresham is falling in love with me."

       "I don't blame him, whoever he is," I replied — then I stopped short. "Gresham, of Cave's Road?" I asked.

       She nodded assent.

       "And what makes you think that, you vain creature?" I asked, after a pause, during which the gruesome details of the stone stable mystery again surged across my memory.

       "Just his manner," she replied, turning slightly from my gaze, "and — something he said."

       "May one inquire what?"

       "He — he asked me to marry him."

       "To marry him!" I echoed, blankly, surprised into seriousness by the unexpected nature of the reply. "And you?" —

       "Of course I pretended to take it as a joke, especially as his sister was present at the time, but I endeavoured to let him see by my manner that jests of that kind did not appeal to me."

       "And then?" —

       "Don't look so solemn, Jim," she said, a little breathlessly. "And then he laughed, as I expected he would do, and went away. That was after I had been in the house about ten days, and he did not say anything more to me for two or three days after that. Then, one evening, after his sister had gone to bed for the night, he came out to me in the garden and — he proposed again."

       For the life of me I could not prevent a slight movement, which suggested an intention to rise to my feet. Mary, suspecting the intention, held me fast.

       "Don't be silly, Jim," she said huskily. "Listen — I took him seriously this time, and told him that it was impossible for several reasons, one of which was that I was already engaged. He seemed deeply chagrined, but still continued to press me to 'take pity on him,' as he said, and it was some time before I succeeded in effecting my escape."

       "Your escape!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean he kept you there by force?"

       "In a sense, yes. He kept in front of me. He inspired me with the feeling that any determined movement on my part might be met by one equally determined on his."

       "And you still continue to stay there?" I asked, a shade of reproach in my voice.

       "Listen, my dear," she said, coaxingly, "for my story is only beginning."

       I glanced at her in amazement; then, moved to compunction by the shy remorse in the honest brown eyes looking into mine, I drew her towards me. "Say on, my darling," I said. "After all, I have gained what other men may only desire."

       "After I had left him," Mary continued, "I went into my patient's room, where also was my own bed."

       "By the way, who is your patient?" I asked.

       "Miss Gresham, the doctor's sister."

       My mind flew back to the figure of a girl clothed in deep mourning, her face white as the paper on which I write, as she stared with strange eyes on an envelope I held in my hand.

       "What is the matter with her?" I asked, thoughtfully.

       "Consumption. It is in the family. Her sister died of it."

       I nodded, remembering vaguely some earlier mention of the dead sister. "Well?"

       "I was a little excited from what had occurred," resumed my sweetheart, "and perhaps my manner showed evidences of it, for Miss Gresham looked at me curiously, and, as it seemed to me, with a tinge of fear. She was sitting propped up as I had left her, a magazine she had been reading lying listlessly between her thin hands on the coverlet. 'Are you tired?' Miss Gray,' she asked, gently. 'Would it weary you to talk to me for awhile?'

       "I drew a chair to the bedside at once, and sat down facing her. 'You give me too little to do,' I replied. 'Sometimes I am almost tempted to believe that I am the patient and you are the nurse.'

       "She smiled faintly. 'I am sure you must often be overworked,' she said, 'for the sick, poor things, are driven to selfishness by their suffering, and a good rest can do you no harm.' A fit of coughing took her as she spoke, and for more than a minute her whole frame was convulsed. I had been told to expect hemorrhage, but there was none on this occasion, nor, so far as I knew, had there ever been any, yet she was plainly fading away with every hour of her existence.

       "'Would you like me to read to you?' I asked, when she had recovered. She shook her head, and sat regarding me with a look I could not understand, her face meanwhile flushing and paling in a manner which seemed to be due to intense mental excitement. Something lonely and pitiable about her touched me, and drawing nearer I impulsively put my arms round her. Instantly she buried her face in my breast, and burst into a passion of tearless sobbing, the most terrible I ever witnessed. I could not forbear crying myself," continued my sweetheart, the moisture shining in her eyes, "and for a minute or two we clung together, abandoning ourselves to grief. 'Oh, Mary,' she exclaimed, at last, 'say you will not leave me till the end. Oh, my dear, it is terrible to die alone — if you knew — how — lonely I am. 'There, dear,' I said, soothing her, 'be comforted. I do not intend to leave you. Besides, do you forget that you have a brother always near you?'

       "With a force that startled me, she tore herself from my embrace, her breast heaved convulsively, and in her eyes was a look so wild and stern that I shrank as from an impending blow. 'Do you love him?' she asked, hoarsely — menacingly. 'Love him! No!' I replied. 'Better for you,' she continued, in the same threatening manner, 'that you were lying in your grave than that you should yield to his solicitations.'

       "'You speak so of your brother?' I asked, in amazement. 'My brother!' she repeated, bitterly, 'yes — God help me!' And again the same terrible sobs shook her frame. I sat with her for an hour, endeavouring to allay her agitation, until at length, worn out by the fierceness of her emotions, she sank to sleep."

       The conclusion of Mary's narrative left me in a brown study, so suggestive was it of concealed tragedy. Often in the past it had occurred to me that the girl, whom I now learned to be dying, knew more of the circumstances of her lover's death than she had chosen to reveal. The fear with which she appeared to await my questions at the time of the burglary, the agitation she had shown on catching sight of the letter addressed to Asher, but, above all, her manner when in the witness-box, had all tended to foster the idea, if not of her guilt, at least of a guilty knowledge. Was it possible that this suspicion was justified? Yet — I turned to Mary.

       "Is Miss Gresham attended solely by her brother?" I asked.

       "Oh, no," replied Mary, "Dr. Brand comes regularly, and Dr. Sheffield has visited her once or twice. Everything possible is being done for her, and you must not run away with an idea to the contrary. I dislike Dr. Gresham, but there is no question that he is devoted to his sister."

       "Your narrative hardly supports that conclusion, Mary," I replied — "or rather, it docs not indicate any return of devotion on the part of the sister."

       Mary was silent. At this moment we were summoned from the house, and I prepared to rise. "I suppose you have nursed consumptives before?" I said.

       "Yes, several."

       "This is just an ordinary case?"

       She hesitated before replying, and I awaited her answer with curiosity.

       "No," she replied, slowly, at length, "there are unusual features — the cough is unusual."

       "I thought a cough was, on the contrary, an unfailing feature."

       "There are different kinds of coughs, and they have different shades of meaning," Mary said.

       "I see what you mean," I replied. "And what is the interpretation of this particular cough?"

       "That is more than I can tell you."

       As we walked up to the house I continued the inquisition. "Anything else unusual?"

       Mary stood still and regarded me with a half-smile.

       "You make me almost afraid of you, Detective Hazlett," she said. "Do you scent a mystery in my little story?"

       "Yes, my dear," I replied, gravely. "But answer my question — what else is there unusual in Miss Gresham's case?"

       "Just this, that to all outward evidence to the contrary, her lungs are as good as my own."

*       *       *       *      *

       It was late in the evening before I set out to find and saddle my horse, and, the night being dark, I was agreeably surprised to find that the task had been performed for me, and the horse, ready saddled, was awaiting me by the gate. Richards, the hired man, came forward as I approached, and tightened up the girths. He was a curious, reserved young fellow, evidently by education superior to his situation, and while the whole family liked him on account of his readiness to oblige, and the thorough manner in which every task entrusted to him was performed, he was by no means an easy man to approach. For some time past, however, I had noticed in him an apparent willingness to be more communicative with me than with most people.

       "Thank you, Richards," I said. "I will remember you in my will, unless you would like a pipe of tobacco now."

       He laughed, and began to fill his pipe from the stick I offered him. "Got anything sensational on?" he asked.

       "Nothing," I replied; "crime's at a standstill."

       "I suppose you always keep on the watch," he said, speculatively. "I have often wondered how a detective regards crime — doesn't the moral view drop out of sight after a bit?"

       "No doubt it does to some extent," I replied. "A detective's work often resolves itself into a match of wits, especially when he is on the scent of a really intelligent criminal, and every man is bound to yield a tribute of admiration to superior intelligence, whatever the moral aspect may be."

       "I suppose it would surprise you to learn that I am a criminal," he said, abruptly.

       "It would," I replied, fairly astonished.

       "Why?"

       "Well, it surprises me to hear you say so. Every man, no doubt, breaks the law occasionally, and so strictly speaking becomes a —–"

       "Yes, yes," he interrupted, impatiently; "but that's not the meaning we usually attach to the word. I am a criminal in the usual sense."

       "It's no business of mine," I replied, preparing to start.

       "It might be," said my strange companion.

       "Richards," I said, putting my foot in the stirrup, "I have known a good many criminals in my time, and some of them were as good, aye and better, than myself. You appear to be a decent fellow. Take my advice — go slow, and keep your mouth shut."

       "I do not talk like this to everyone," he said, huskily.

       "Nevertheless, you might easily pick a more suitable confidant," was my reply, as I swung into the saddle.

       "I chose a man with bowels in him," said he. "I have seen you with Miss Gray, and I have seen you with the kids, and that's enough for me."

       It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of his tones, but this made me only the more anxious to stay the confession hovering on his lips.

       "Why come to me?" I asked. "If you must unburden yourself to someone, why not go to Mr Gray? You couldn't hope to find a stauncher friend. He likes you and he will help you. My case is different — you put me in a position I should hate to occupy. Take my advice, like a good fellow, and go to Gray."

       "I don't ask anything of you," he replied, "except just to listen. I've stood it till I can stand no more."

       "Then why not go to the station?" I suggested.

       "I'll tell you, sir, why not. You were talking of Mr Gray. He was the Samaritan that found me by the side of the way and put me on my feet. I don't carry my heart on my sleeve, but I don't forget — I don't forget." His voice shook momentarily. "The only way I can do him any good is by helping you."

       "How can you help me?" I asked, curiously.

       "My story will help you," he replied; "you will be the first to acknowledge it."

       "It may be so," was my hesitating reply, "but I can't think you have fully considered the possible consequences to yourself. At any rate I will not listen to you now. Take time to think the matter over, and if you do not change your mind in the meantime come to me some evening during the week."

       "I shall not change my mind," he said.

       "Very well," I concluded. "In that case I shall see you again." And wishing him good-night I turned my horse through the gateway.

       The singular antagonism which, according to Mary's story, Miss Gresham appeared to entertain toward her brother prompted me to make some inquiries as to the antecedents of the family. Conducting my investigations quietly, I rapidly acquired the knowledge of a number of facts which, though simple in themselves, were capable, when conjoined, of providing a motive for crime, and even the suggestion that crime had actually been perpetrated.

       The father of the Greshams had, I discovered, acquired considerable wealth by land speculation in the early days, leaving to his three children a sum of rather under twenty thousand pounds. None of the children being of age at the time of his decease, the money was left in trust, the principle sum to be paid over only in the event of the marriage of any of the beneficiaries. In the case of one of the three dying unmarried, his

       or her share fell to the other two, and in the event of two dying unmarried, then the whole amount went at once unconditionally to the sole survivor. Wills on such terms are drawn up daily, and, beyond the suggestion of a possible motive for crime, there was nothing noteworthy in the testament. When, however, I considered that one sister was already dead, that a second was reported to be dying under peculiar circumstances, while the lover to whom she had been engaged had himself been mysteriously murdered, then the will became at once in my eyes a document of supreme importance.

       My first thought was naturally of my own sweetheart, and if any spur had been needed to move me to the rescue of the unfortunate girl, whom I conceived to be slowly and fiendishly done to death by that frank and plausible criminal, Dr. Gresham, it was the thought that my own dear Mary was to a great extent at his mercy.

       My first duty was to report my suspicions to headquarters, and this I hastened to do. I need not enter into what occurred at that interview. The matter was placed unreservedly in my hands, and I was released from all other duties until it had been brought to a satisfactory termination.

       My first act was to wait upon Dr. Brand. I had frequently had business relations with him, and these had not only impressed me with his shrewdness, but they had rendered me certain that whatever was being done to the unfortunate girl — supposing some unholy crime to be, as I suspected, in progress — he, at least, was not a participator therein.

       The doctor, I was told, had important business on hand, but being informed of the urgency of my case, he consented to see me. He appeared in his shirt sleeves, looking slightly exasperated. "Oh, it's you, Hazlett," he said. "Come into the dining-room. The fact is, I was just sitting down to a chop — my first meal to-day. You can tell me what's the matter while I'm getting on with it."

       "It's a simple question I've got to ask you, doctor," I said, when the doctor was seated at his meal. "What's the matter with Miss Gresham?"

       "Gresham! Oh, ay. Consumption. Hopeless case."

       "When did you make your last examination?"

       "See her every day. It's more a matter of form than anything else — just to oblige Gresham."

       "Do you examine her every day!" I asked.

       "Examine! Pooh! You don't go every day to a cash-box you know to be empty."

       "Did you ever examine her, doctor!" I insisted.

       The doctor laid down his fork and looked at me, partly puzzled, partly reflective.

       "I can't remember that I ever actually made an examination," he admitted; "but there was no necessity for it."

       "Why no necessity?"

       "Because there is not a better man in Auckland than Gresham."

       "You take his word for her condition, then?"

       "Assuredly — if any word were needed — but, man, the case is self-evident."

       "Would it be a breach of professional etiquette to ask to examine her?"

       "At this stage, yes." The doctor pushed away his half-eaten meal, and sat watching me with a thoughtful frown.

       "Could you make an examination without his knowledge?"

       "Ah; now you're coming to it," said the doctor, drily. "I'm to make an examination for the police, am I? Well, I'll see you shot first!"

       "I hope not, doctor," I replied, laughing. "But before we discuss the point I should just like to say this. I am here, of course, as a police officer, but I am not taking evidence in this room, and that's a distinction you will recognise. Now, suppose I went to another medical man and instructed him to make an examination, and suppose, further, that he discovered that the girl was no more consumptive than you or I, and that the cause of her illness was something quite different — I do not think Dr. Brand would relish the position in which he would then find himself."

       "How's that?" he asked, roughly, rising, and walking hurriedly up and down the room.

       "On the other hand," I continued, disregarding the question, "if Dr. Brand, in consequence of several unusual features decided to make an examination on his own account, and in consequence of what he discovered afterwards made a report to the police, it could hardly fail to redound to his credit."

       "I can see what you're at, Hazlett," he said. "You've got it into your thick head that the girl is being made away with, but not being quite sure of your ground, you want to throw the onus of your discovery on to me. Very nice! But the thing's absurd. There's only one person against whom a suspicion could lie, and that's Gresham — a man whose distress is patent to everyone, and who has absolutely no motive in the world for desiring his sister's death."

       "I suppose the condition of the girl's lungs has been described to you, doctor?" I asked.

       "Yes, fully," was the reply.

       "Then what would your opinion of Dr. Gresham be if you found on examination that her lungs were as sound as your own?"

       "Pah!" exclaimed the doctor. "You are talking nonsense."

       "Will you put it to the test?" I asked.

       "Yes, I will," he replied, impulsively.

       He touched the electric button and ordered his trap. "Gresham is due in Queen-street in five minutes," he remarked. "If you choose to come out to Epsom with me in place of the groom you can do so."

       I did choose, and in twenty minutes we were at our destination.

       The doctor alighted, and for nearly half an hour I was left alone. When he returned there was no need for me to ask questions; the gravity of his face spoke volumes.

       "I have put the nurse on her guard," he said. "She is a reliable girl. What is the next step?"

       "Do you find any traces of disease whatever?" I asked.

       "Nothing organic — unless mental. She has a strange aversion to food."

       "Are her symptoms consistent with the presence of any known poison?"

       "They might be; it is not easy to say. To a medical man there are a great many known poisons."

       "What Is your advice as a medical man?" I asked.

       "Remove her entirely from her present surroundings, or — remove Gresham."

       "I understand the significance of your alternative," I replied; "but before we could proceed to Gresham's arrest we would have to be in a position to show that the girl's life had been attempted in a certain specific manner. Did she say anything that would give us a clue?"

       "She hardly spoke," replied the doctor. "She consented to let me examine her only after considerable persuasion. Either she is wilfully shielding her brother or her mind is affected."

       All this while the trap had been moving slowly down the lane. It now occurred to me to go back and consult with Mary on the best method of safe-guarding her patient until she could be removed entirely from Gresham's clutches. Accordingly, telling the doctor I would see him again during the day, I alighted and made my way up to the house. I found Mary, as I had hardly dared to hope, without attracting the attention of anyone else in the house, and we had a long talk together. She was naturally horrified at my suspicion, but expressed her intention of doing her duty by her patient. With the exception of some creasote capsules prescribed by Dr. Brand, and which that gentleman had now ordered to be discontinued, I learned that no drugs were used in the sick-room. The doctor's instructions were that no medicines whatever were to be administered, and that the patient was never to be left alone night or day. I questioned Mary closely as to Gresham's habits, without discovering one circumstance which could be regarded as suspicious. He spent a great part of his leisure time at the bedside of his sister, and his manner was at all times affectionate and solicitous. Occasionally he brought her grapes and other fruit from town, and was frequently at pains to order the preparation of culinary delicacies which might tempt the appetite of an invalid. He was, however, rarely present when these meals were served, and in most cases were sent away all but untasted. The theory, in short, that the girl was being poisoned, Mary regarded as altogether untenable.

       "What is the matter with her, then?" I asked.

       "She is dying of starvation," said Mary.

       "In the midst of plenty," I remarked.

       "Yes, and she will express a desire for almost any food that is named to her, but after a few mouthfuls she is seized with aversion, and will eat no more."

       "Have you ever tasted the food?"

       "Often. The result is the same, whether the dish is prepared expressly for her or for the family; she will have none of it."

       "Is it possible her mind is affected?" I asked.

       "Except for her aversion to food, and the dislike, or rather dread, with which she regards her brother, there is nothing to make me think so. But how would you account for the deception which Dr. Gresham has practised as to the nature of her illness?"

       "If there were hereditary insanity in the family, he might be actuated by a desire to conceal it," I answered; but the idea struck me at the time as inadequate and far fetched.

       Mary shook her head. "There is more in it than that, Jim," she said. "What the secret of her illness is I do not know, but that Dr. Gresham is responsible, I am certain. I feel it in my blood. The dread she has of him I share with her. He is a dangerous man."

       "Mary," I asked anxiously, "is it likely she will tell her brother of Dr. Brand's visit?"

       "No; because she herself has asked me not to do so."

       "Good," I said, relieved. "If she adheres to that determination all is well. In the meantime never leave her while he is in the house. Her life may depend upon that. From to-night the house will be watched by the police, and at all hours help will be at hand if needed. Don't forget that and it will give you confidence."

       Having arranged a plan whereby my sweetheart would become aware of my presence in the event of it becoming necessary for me to see her again, I hastened back into town.

       That evening, as I sat turning the problem over in my mind, and endeavouring to decide on the next move, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. My visitor proved to be Richards, who, true to his expressed determination of a week before, had arrived to make his confession. I was not best pleased to see him, having other and, as I thought, more important matters to think of, but I gave him a hearing, nevertheless. He did not keep me long in suspense, and his first words overcame at once any disinclination I may have felt to listen.

       "You remember the case they called the 'Stone Stable Mystery' about three or four years ago," he began. "It all came out in consequence of a burglary occurring in a house near at hand. You were the man that brought the thing to light, and I was the man that gave you your chance. I was the burglar."

       "Sit down, Richards," I said, now nearly as excited as he was, "and begin at the beginning."

(To be concluded.)

PART II. — (Continued.)

       Richards seated himself, breathing quickly, and for a moment or two he did not speak.

       "The beginning is a long way back," he said, at length; "and I should have a hard task to find it. The point is, I know, how Barrow came by his death. I have known it for years."

       "Richards," I interrupted, “before you go further, tell me one thing — did you have a hand in it?"

       "No," he replied, strongly. "I was not even a witness; but I know."

       I nodded, and, collecting himself, he began his story.

       "I had spent all my money and lost all my friends, never mind how or why. I was too proud and too ignorant to do menial work. A man who has been well educated and lived in the lap of luxury does not come down to that all at once. When finally not even a roof was left me, I roamed about the suburbs getting a meal and sleeping where I could. In this way I found the stone stable.

       "It was an evening about the beginning of March, either the fourth or the fifth. I found the door unlocked and, going inside, I struck a match and looked about me. There was a loft overhead, but I did not go up at once, and while I stood looking round the match went out in my fingers and I heard a sound of steps coming round the other side of the building. It was too late for me to escape unobserved, and I groped my way across the stable until I came to where I had noticed the battens that gave access to the left; then I went cautiously up and lay down at the edge of the floor above.

       "As I reached my hiding place I heard the sound of voices in the doorway, then the door closed and a faint light illumined the floor beneath. Peering down I saw two men standing by the bench that ran across the end of the stable. They had a lantern placed so that the light fell on the wall opposite to the entrance, as though fearful that the rays might be discerned through the chinks of the door — indeed, I heard one of them say something to that effect. Both men wore overcoats, though the weather was warm, and one also appeared to have his face or head bandaged with cloths. They were conversing earnestly and in subdued voices, every word of their conversation being audible to me in the loft."

       "Who were they?" I asked, as Richards paused.

       "I had seen neither of them before, but I know now that they were Barrow and Gresham."

       "Well?"

       "I heard Barrow complain that he had heard nothing from his brother, and he asked Gresham if some letter had been delivered. Gresham replied that it had, that he had handed it to Asher outside his office. Barrow appeared agitated and walked excitedly up and down. "'Why should I prolong this torture,' he exclaimed at length. 'What is left for me to live for? Better that I should die now than rot slowly in Thursday Island. For the love of God, Gresham, help me. I am a leper, you have said it. Let me die now before the worst horror of the thing is upon me. You have the means at hand. You would not hesitate in the cause of humanity to destroy a wounded animal. Is there less humanity for the man than for the brute?’

       "Gresham drew back, staring al the other, and breathing quickly.

       "'Would you take that way, Barrow?' he asked.

       “'Try me,' replied Barrow. 'Give me the opportunity.'

       "There was a long silence, then they moved away under the floor of the loft, and presently I heard the door open and the sound of their footsteps retreating towards the road. Fearing discovery, I descended and made my way into the open air, where I lay down under the shelter of a stone wall. The night was overcast and dark. Several times at long intervals I heard footsteps passing close to me, but at last I fell asleep and did not awake until the rumble of a cart on the road disturbed me shortly after dawn. Curiosity prompted me to go round to the door of the stable. I found a padlock on the door, but the hasp was unfastened, and, loosening it, I went inside. The place appeared as I had left it, with the exception that there was a tin case standing on the bench which I did not recollect having seen there on the previous night. In the case I found a tin of fresh milk and some meat sandwiches. I helped myself to them, and that was my first theft.

       "After that I often returned to the stable at night-time, but though the tin case remained in the same place, it was never replenished with food. How I managed to exist for the next week or two is a mystery even to myself, but at last I was desperate, and fit for anything. Then one night, prowling about the houses in the neighbourhood, I found the side door of Dr. Gresham's house unlocked, and I took advantage of it. I found the bureau in the consulting-room, and prised it open with a strong knife. I did the same by the cash-box, and, pocketing what it contained, and possessing myself of a pocket-book I discovered in one of the drawers, I made my way back to the stable."

       "Did you have a light in the consulting-room?"

       "Yes, there was a reading lamp on the table, and I lit it."

       "Did you look in the pocket-book to see if it contained anything?"

       "Not at that time, but in the stable I did. There were two single pound notes and the letter to Asher."

       "You are sure it contained the letter to Asher?"

       "Certain. How it fell out without my seeing it I don't know. It mystified me at the time, but I was too excited to think it out coolly. It was not until I came to read the report of the inquest that I learnt what had actually occurred to it. That is my story."

       "Why did you not come forward at once and give yourself up?"

       "For two reasons. In the first place, I doubted whether I should be believed. In the second, I knew, or thought I knew, that Barrow had taken his own life."

       "Do you think differently now?"

       "I am less certain, and it is just the torture of that doubt which has driven me to you. Gresham may, from an unconsidered impulse of humanity, have given Barrow the means to end his life, and then, losing his head and fearing the consequences to himself, have taken steps to conceal the body. After that the mere fact that he perjured himself counts for nothing as a proof of his guilt."

       "So," I said, rising, "that then is the clue to the mystery — Barrow was a leper."

       "Was he a leper?" asked Richards, slowly.

       I stood still, arrested by the diabolical suggestion which lay at the root of his words.

       "If I could be sure of that," continued Richards, "I should be sorry I spoke. But was he a leper — or was he — the victim of a — devil?"

       "Tell me how the suspicion of such a possibility has crept into your mind, Richards," I said.

       "How do suspicions arise?" Richards asked in his turn. "Something in Gresham's manner, maybe, when the proposition was made to him. Something in the complete self-possession that characterised him at the inquest. Isn't it a fact that great criminals have no moral sense? And could a man with a moral sense — knowing what Gresham knew — have preserved throughout the proceedings such a complete serenity of manner, that not the faintest shadow of doubt at any time attached to his words? The more I have reflected on it, the more certain have I become that the facts don't fit; that the true secret of Barrow's death is not as it appears."

       Knowing what I did of the events even now transpiring in the Gresham household, every word he uttered affected me with a force of which he could have no idea, but I had had too much experience of criminal investigation to fall into the error of embracing a complex theory of a crime where a simple one would suffice, and I therefore resolved to preserve an open mind. There was now only one thing to do with Richards, and that was to conduct him to the office and get him to repeat his story word for word. This was done, and he was then arrested for the burglarious entry of Dr. Gresham's house, being almost immediately released on the recognisances of his employer and myself. I may say at this stage that the charge was never proceeded with against this young man, and that he has never since ceased to lead a respectable life.

       It was very nearly midnight before I returned home, but my time had not been wasted. In my pocket was a warrant, authorising me to arrest Dr. Edward John Gresham on the charge of inciting and abetting one, Arthur Barrow, to commit suicide.

       As I turned into the street I saw the lights of a hansom drawn up in front of my door, and a few minutes later, instead of turning, as I had anticipated into a comfortable bed, I was rolling rapidly through the silent streets in the direction of Cave’s-road. One of the men who were set to watch the house had been sent with an urgent message from Mary, requiring my immediate presence. The message was verbal and the man knew of no reason for it. Dr. Gresham was at home, had not stirred out since dinner, and at the time the man left was believed to be in his consulting-room, writing letters. A signal had been agreed upon to indicate my arrival, and the young lady would join me in the garden immediately afterwards.

       Everything came off as arranged, and Mary reached me, apparently unnoticed by the household.

       "Oh, Jim," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "I am sorry to take you from your sleep, but, I dare not be alone any longer."

       "You shall not," I replied, putting my arm round her. "You have been a brave girl, but it is a man's business now and your responsibility is at an end."

       "I have a terrible thing to tell you," she sail, holding fast to me. "When I left, you in the garden this morning, I went back to the house at once and stayed with Miss Gresham all day. The doctor came in once or twice before it was dark, but only stayed to say a few words. After dinner he came up again and remained a little longer. He asked me if his sister had been able to take any food, and I replied, as was the case, that she had eaten better than she had done for several days past. He seemed pleased, and after a few minutes again went away. I heard him go into his consulting-room and close the door. I had been accustomed at this time of the day to go out for a breath of fresh air before retiring for the night, and Miss Gresham now suggested that I should follow my usual custom. I replied that I preferred to remain in doors, that I was too tired, that the night, air, was chilly, but she insisted, and I went.

       "My idea was to take a run down the lawn and come straight back, but I stayed a little longer than I intended, and it was possibly four or five minutes before I returned. I had closed my patient's door on leaving, but as I came back through the hall I noticed that it was slightly ajar. My suspicions were aroused and I moved forward silently. As I drew near I heard a voice. It was the doctor's voice, and yet there was a difference. It sounded cold and hard and it made my flesh creep. 'You cannot eat,' said the voice. 'All food nauseates and disgusts you. You will never be able to eat.' The words were repeated two or three times in the same tense, steely tones. I felt myself growing faint, and, fearing what might be the result of a loss of consciousness at that critical moment I drew back until I was out of hearing, when I turned and ran out into the cool night air.

       "From the darkness I could look along the hall without being observed, and in a short while I saw him come out and cross in the direction of the consulting-room, when I went back to my patient's room. She was sitting up as I had left her, but there was a vacant look in her eyes which had often puzzled me on previous occasions. I understood the meaning of it now, for I had seen cases of treatment by hypnotic suggestion, but my mind was so clouded by horror that for awhile I could not think coherently. Then I felt that I must see you, and, on the pretence of having left something in the garden, I went out and sent the message which brought you here."

       "Where is Gresham now?" I asked, as Mary concluded.

       "In the consulting-room."

       "Does he suspect anything? It is very late for him to be working."

       "He is often there later than this," Mary replied. "There has been nothing to arouse his suspicions, unless he has heard of Dr. Brand's visit."

       The possibility of this having happened determined me to act at once, instead of waiting, as I had at first intended, for the morning. I therefore told Mary to return to her patient's room, and for her greater peace of mind to lock the door. I then posted one of my assistants in the front of the house, leaving the second in his old position by the side door that gave access to the consulting-room. These arrangements made, I entered the house, and went quickly along the hall and side passage to Dr. Gresham's office. A ray of light streaming through the keyhole directed me to the door I sought, and, with a single premonitory rap, I turned the handle and entered. Dr. Gresham was seated at the desk, with a number of open books before him. He started at my abrupt entry and regarded me with a look of dawning recollection.

       "Hazlett," he exclaimed.

       I closed the door and stood with my back to it. Then I read the warrant and gave him the usual caution.

       He made no reply, but sat jingling the charms on his watch chain, regarding me with an amused smile.

       "I have a cab waiting for you outside," I remarked, taking a step in his direction. "We can go out through the side door without alarming the house."

       "Are you really serious, Hazlett?" he asked. "What possible grounds can you have for arresting me?"

       "You will learn them at the Police Court to-morrow," I said.

       He appeared slightly dashed at this, and his fingers strayed from one charm to another, as though he were testing and rejecting various theories.

       "Give me a hint," he said at last, "and I will ask you nothing further."

       "You are charged on the sworn testimony of an eye witness," was my response. "But there is a good deal against you, Gresham, and if you had not been arrested on this charge, you might be on another."

       "What other?" he inquired incredulously.

       "Attempted murder of your sister."

       "I suppose you have evidence on that point also," he said, with a sneer.

       "The evidence of Dr. Brand," I replied. That shook him. I caught a momentary gleam of fury in the depths of his smiling eyes. His hand ceased to finger the charms indiscriminately, and became fixed on one particular ornament.

       "Have you been moleing beneath my feet all these years?" he asked, menacingly.

       "Now, Gresham," I said, raising a warning forefinger; "don't spoil things by losing your temper. Get up and we will go out into the lane."

       He raised his hand to his moustache, and in the next instant I heard a slight sound of something breaking between his teeth. Blowing my whistle, I threw myself upon him, but it was already too late. The deadly drug contained in the gold charm struck straight at the vital spark, and in a few minutes he had ceased to breathe.

       The rest of my story may be told in a few words.

       Agnes Gresham, removed from the deadly influence of her brother, slowly recovered.

       The exact details of Gresham's crime are, of course, only matters for conjecture, but there is no doubt that the idea of persuading Barrow that he was a leper arose out of stories related by Barrow himself of his experiences in Thursday Island. The delusion was probably intensified in the victim's mind by some trivial affection of a local character, a supposition to some extent borne out by the contused swelling on Barrow's high cheekbone. Convinced of the terrible calamity which had befallen him, it was only natural in a man of Barrow's high character, that he should seek to minimise the risk to others by withdrawing himself from all human intercourse save that of the doctor. It is probable that the latter's first idea was to induce the return of his victim to Thursday Island, but the alternative proposed by Barrow doubtless appealed to him as a simpler and more certain method of achieving the end he had in view. What really happened on that March night, while Richards lay sleeping within a stone's throw under the wall, will never be known. But suicide or murder, the blood-guiltiness was Gresham's.

(THE END)