<h2 class="newchapter"><SPAN name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></SPAN>CHAPTER IV<br/> <span class="smalltext">THE STRANGE CASE OF MICHAEL HALL</span></h2>
<p>Quarles was professedly a theorist, and I admit that he often outraged
my practical mind. I believe the practical people govern the affairs
of the world, but occasionally one is brought face to face with such
strange occurrences that it is impossible not to speculate what would
happen had not the world its theorists and dreamers too.</p>
<p>Early one morning about a week after the mad burglar's case, I
received a wire from Zena Quarles, asking me to go to Chelsea as soon
as possible. A request from her was a command to me, and, dispensing
with breakfast, except for a hasty cup of coffee, I started at once.
She came to the door herself.</p>
<p>"Come in here for a minute," she said, leading the way into the
dining-room and closing the door. "Grandfather does not know I have
sent for you. I am troubled about him. For the last three days he has
not left his room. He will not let me go to him. His door is not
locked, but he commanded me, quite irritably, not to come until he
called for me. For three days he has not wanted my companionship, and
never before do I remember so long an isolation."</p>
<p>"What is he doing?" I asked.</p>
<p>She did not answer at once, and when she did the words came with some
hesitation.</p>
<p>"Of course, he is an extraordinary man, with powers<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></SPAN></span> which one cannot
exactly define, powers which—don't think me foolish—powers which
might prove dangerous. In a way, you and I understand him, but I think
there is a region beyond into which we are not able to follow him. I
admit there have been times when I have been tempted to think that
some of his philosophical reasonings and fantastic statements were
merely the eccentricities of a clever man—intentional mystifications,
a kind of deceptive paraphernalia."</p>
<p>"I have thought so too," I said.</p>
<p>"We are wrong," she said decisively. "He wanders into regions into
which we cannot follow—where he touches something which is outside
ordinary understanding, and when he is only dimly conscious of the
actualities about him. Don't you remember his saying once that we
ought to strive toward the heights, and see the truth which lies
behind what we call truth? He does climb there, I believe, and, in
order that he may do so, his empty room and isolation are necessary. I
wonder whether there is any peril in such a journey?"</p>
<p>I did not venture to answer. Being a practical man, a discussion on
these lines was beyond me.</p>
<p>As I went to the professor's room I framed a knotty, if unnecessary,
problem out of a case upon which I was engaged; but I was not to
propound it.</p>
<p>I was suddenly plunged into a mystery which led to one of the most
curious investigations I have ever undertaken, and showed a new phase
of the professor's powers.</p>
<p>Christopher Quarles was sitting limply in the arm-chair, but he
started as I entered, and looked at me with blinking eyes, as though
he did not recognize me.</p>
<p>Energy returned to him suddenly, and he sat up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></SPAN></span>"Paper and pencil," he said, pointing to the writing-table. I handed
him a pencil and a writing-block.</p>
<p>By a gesture he intimated that he wanted me to watch him.</p>
<p>Quarles was no draughtsman. He had told me so—quite unnecessarily,
because I had often seen him make a rough sketch to illustrate some
argument, and he always had to explain what the various parts of the
drawing stood for. Yet, as I watched him now, he began to draw with
firm, determined fingers—a definite line here, another there,
sometimes pausing for a moment as if to remember the relative position
of a line or the exact curve in it.</p>
<p>For a time there seemed no connection between the lines, no meaning in
the design.</p>
<p>I have seen trick artists at a music-hall draw in this way, beginning
with what appeared to be the least essential parts, and then, with two
or three touches, causing all the rest to fall into proper perspective
and a complete picture. So it was with Quarles. Two or three quick
lines, and the puzzle became a man's head and shoulders. No one could
doubt that it was a portrait with certain characteristics exaggerated,
not into caricature, but enough to make it impossible not to recognize
the original from the picture. It was an attractive face, but set and
rather tragic in expression.</p>
<p>Quarles did not speak. He surveyed his work for a few moments,
slightly corrected the curve of the nostril, and then very swiftly
drew a rope round the neck, continuing it in an uncertain line almost
to the top of the paper. The sudden stoppage of the pencil give a
jagged end to the line. The rope looked as if it had been broken. The
effect was startling.</p>
<p>"Three times he has visited me," said Quarles.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></SPAN></span> "First, just as the
dusk was falling he stood in the window there, little more than a dark
shadow against the light outside. The second time was when the lamp
was lighted. I looked up suddenly, and he was standing there by the
fireplace gazing at me intently. He was flesh and blood, real, not a
ghost, no shape of mist trailing into my vision. An hour ago, at least
it seems only an hour ago, he came again. The door opened, and he
entered. He stood there just in front of me, as clearly visible in the
daylight as you are, and as real. When you opened the door, I thought
my visitor had come a fourth time."</p>
<p>"And what is the meaning of this—this broken rope?" I said, pointing
to the drawing.</p>
<p>"Broken?" and he looked at the paper closely. "My hand stopped
involuntarily. It is a good sign—encouraging—but the rope is not
really broken yet. That is for us to accomplish."</p>
<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
<p>"I mean that in one of His Majesty's prisons this man lies under
sentence of death, that he is innocent of the crime, that he has been
permitted to come to me for help."</p>
<p>"But——?"</p>
<p>Quarles sprang from his chair.</p>
<p>"Ah, leave questioning alone. I do not know how much time we have to
prevent injustice being done. Take this drawing, Wigan, find out where
the man is, work night and day to get the whole history, and then come
to me. We must not lose a moment. Providence must have sent you to
Chelsea this morning—another sign of encouragement."</p>
<p>I did not explain how I came to be there, nor say there was no
foundation for encouragement in my un<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></SPAN></span>expected arrival. Indeed, but
for my talk with Zena that morning, I should have been inclined to
argue with him. As it was, I left Chelsea only half convinced that I
was not being misled by the fantastic dream of a man not in his usual
state of health.</p>
<p>I was soon convinced of my error.</p>
<p>Quarles's drawing was the portrait of a real man. He was lying under
sentence of death in Worcestershire, the case against him so clear
that there seemed to be no doubt about his guilt. The story was a
sordid one, had created no sensation, had presented no difficult
problem. But, under the peculiar circumstances, it was only natural
that I should work with feverish haste to learn all the details of the
crime, and I intimated to the authorities that facts had come to my
knowledge which threw a doubt on the justice of the sentence, and that
a postponement at least of the last penalty of the law would be
advisable. This advice was not the outcome of anything I discovered;
it was given entirely on my faith in Christopher Quarles.</p>
<p>Later I told the following story to the professor and Zena in the
empty room.</p>
<p>"Michael Hall, the condemned man, is an artist," I said. "The portrait
of him, Professor, is a good one. I have seen him, and he impresses
you at once as possessing the artistic temperament. Whether he has
anything beyond the temperament, I cannot judge, but the fact remains
that he has had little success. He is a gentleman, and there is
something convincing in the manner in which he protests his innocence.
Yet I am bound to say that every circumstance points to his guilt.
Possessed of two or three hundred pounds, and an unlimited faith in
himself, he married. There is one child, three years old. The money
dwindled rapidly,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></SPAN></span> and a year ago, to cut down expenses, he went to
live at Thornfield, a village near Pershore, in Worcestershire. At
Thornfield he became acquainted with an elderly gentleman named
Parrish, a bookworm, something of a recluse, and an eccentric. For no
particular reason, and apparently without any foundation, Mr. Parrish
had the reputation of being a rich man. Generally speaking, the
inhabitants of Thornfield are humble people, and the fact that Parrish
had a little old silver may have given rise to the idea of his wealth.
He does not appear to have had even a banking account.</p>
<p>"The old gentleman welcomed a neighbor of his own class, and Hall was
constantly in his house. That Hall should come to Thornfield and live
in a tiny cottage might suggest to anyone that he was not overburdened
with this world's goods, but Hall declares that Parrish had no
knowledge of his circumstances. Only on one occasion was Parrish in
his cottage, and money was never mentioned between them. Yet Hall was
in difficulties. He pawned several things in Pershore—small articles
of jewelry belonging to his wife—giving his name as George Cross, and
an address in Pershore. One evening—a Sunday evening—Hall was with
Parrish. The housekeeper—Mrs. Ashworth, an elderly woman—the only
servant living in the house, said in her evidence that Hall came at
seven o'clock. The church clock struck as he came in. Her master
expected him to supper. Hall says that he left at half-past nine, but
Mrs. Ashworth said it was midnight when he went. She had gone to bed
at nine—early hours are the rule in Thornfield—and had been asleep.
She was always a light sleeper. She was roused by the stealthy closing
of the front door, and just then midnight struck.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></SPAN></span> Early next
morning—they rise early in Thornfield—Mrs. Ashworth came down and
found her master upon the floor of his study—dead. He had been struck
down with a life-preserver, which was found in the room and belonged
to Hall. The housekeeper ran out into the village street, but it seems
there was nobody about, and some twenty minutes elapsed before anyone
came to whom she could give the alarm.</p>
<p>"Hall's arrest followed. From the first he protested his innocence,
but the only point in his favor appears to be the fact that he was
found at his cottage, and had not attempted to run away. Everything
else seems to point to his guilt. Although he says he left Parrish's
house at half-past nine, he did not arrive home until after midnight.
His wife innocently gave this information, and Hall, who had not
volunteered it, explained his late return by saying that he was
worried financially, and had gone for a lonely walk to think matters
over. He admits that the life-preserver belonged to him. Mr. Parrish
had spoken once or twice of the possibility of his being robbed, and
that evening Hall had made him a present of the weapon, but had not
told his wife that he was going to do so. The police discovered that
two days before the murder a valuable silver salver belonging to
Parrish had been pawned in Pershore in the name of M. Hall, and the
pawnbroker's assistant identified Hall. A search among Parrish's
papers after the murder resulted in the discovery of a recent will,
under which all the property was left to Hall. The condemned man
declared he was ignorant of this fact, but the prosecution suggested
that his knowledge of it and the straits he was in for money were the
motive for the crime. Except on the assumption that Hall is guilty
there appears to be no motive<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></SPAN></span> for the murder. Nothing but this silver
salver was missing."</p>
<p>Quarles had not interrupted me. He had listened to my narrative, his
features set, his eyes closed, the whole of his mind evidently
concentrated on the story. As I stopped I looked at Zena.</p>
<p>"I wonder the housekeeper did not look out of her bedroom window to
see that it was Michael Hall who left the house," Zena said slowly.</p>
<p>"She slept at the back of the house," I returned.</p>
<p>"I had not thought of that." And then, after a pause, during which her
grandfather's eyes remained fixed upon her as though he would compel
her to say more, she went on: "How was it, since they are early risers
in Thornfield, that Mrs. Ashworth had to wait twenty minutes before
anyone came? The house isn't isolated, is it?"</p>
<p>"No. I understand it is in the middle of the village street."</p>
<p>"There may be something in that question, Wigan," said Quarles,
becoming alert. "Tell me, are the house and its contents still
untouched?"</p>
<p>"I believe so. According to Mrs. Ashworth, Mr. Parrish appears to have
had only one relation living—a nephew, named Charles Eade. He lives
in Birmingham, and at the trial said he knew nothing whatever about
his uncle, and had not seen him for years."</p>
<p>"Any reason?"</p>
<p>"No; the family had drifted apart. I am simply stating what came out
in the evidence."</p>
<p>"About the will," said Quarles. "Was any provision made for Mrs.
Ashworth in it?"</p>
<p>"No; it leaves everything to Hall, and there is a recommendation to
sell the books in London, except a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></SPAN></span> few which are specially mentioned
as being of no value intrinsically, and which Hall is advised to read.
According to Hall, the old gentleman talked much about literature, and
declared that the whole philosophy of life was contained in about a
score of books. I have a copy of the list given in the will."</p>
<p>"Who witnessed the signature to the will?" Quarles asked.</p>
<p>"A lawyer in Pershore and his clerk. This was the only business
transaction the lawyer had had with Mr. Parrish, and he knew little
about him."</p>
<p>"I think we must go to Birmingham," said Quarles. "Sometimes there is
only one particular standpoint from which the real facts can be seen,
and I fancy Birmingham represents that standpoint for us. I suppose
you can arrange for us to have access to Mr. Parrish's house at
Thornfield, Wigan?"</p>
<p>"I will see about that," I answered.</p>
<p>"Are you sure Michael Hall is not guilty?" asked Zena.</p>
<p>"Were he guilty I should not have seen him," answered Quarles
decidedly.</p>
<p>"His poor wife!" said Zena.</p>
<p>"Pray, dear, that we may carry sunlight to her again," said the
professor solemnly.</p>
<p>I thought that our journey to Birmingham was for the purpose of
interviewing Parrish's nephew, but it was not. Quarles got a list of
the leading secondhand booksellers there.</p>
<p>"A bookworm, Wigan, remains a bookworm to the end of his days.
Although nothing has been said about it, I warrant Mr. Parrish bought
books and had them sent to Thornfield."</p>
<p>"He might have bought them in London," I said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></SPAN></span>"I think it was Birmingham," said Quarles.</p>
<p>So far he was right. It was the third place we visited. Baines and Son
was the firm, and we saw old Mr. Baines. He had constantly sold books
to Mr. Parrish, of Thornfield, who had been to his shop several times,
but their intercourse was chiefly by correspondence. Good books!
Certainly. Mr. Parrish knew what he was doing, and never bought
rubbish.</p>
<p>"His purchases might be expected to increase in value?" asked Quarles.</p>
<p>"Yes; but, forgive me, why these questions?"</p>
<p>"Ah! I supposed you would have heard. Mr. Parrish is dead."</p>
<p>"Indeed! I am very sorry to hear it."</p>
<p>"We are looking into his affairs," Quarles went on. "Is there any
money owing to you?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"The fact is, Mr. Parrish was murdered."</p>
<p>"Murdered!" exclaimed Baines, starting from his chair. "Do you mean
for some treasured volume he possessed? Do you mean by some
bibliomaniac?"</p>
<p>"You think he may have had such a treasure, then?"</p>
<p>"I know he had many rare and valuable books," Baines answered.</p>
<p>"You don't happen to know a bibliomaniac who might commit murder?"
said Quarles.</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Such information would help us, because a young man has been
condemned for the murder, a man named Hall—Michael Hall."</p>
<p>"I never heard of him," said Baines. "I wonder I did not see the case
in the paper."</p>
<p>"It caused little sensation," said Quarles. "At pres<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></SPAN></span>ent it seems one
of those crimes committed for small gain."</p>
<p>"Mr. Parrish must have been a man of considerable means," said the
bookseller; "considerable means, although he was eccentric about
money. He always sent me cash, or some check he had received, with a
request that I would return him the balance in cash. Indeed, I have
constantly acted as his banker. He has sent me checks and asked me to
send him notes for them."</p>
<p>"Where did those checks come from—I mean whose were they? Were they
for dividends?"</p>
<p>"Possibly, one or two of them, I do not remember; but I fancy he sold
books sometimes, and the checks represented the purchase money."</p>
<p>We thanked Mr. Baines, and then, just as we were leaving, Quarles
said:</p>
<p>"By the way, do you happen to know a Mr. Charles Eade?"</p>
<p>"A solicitor?" queried the bookseller.</p>
<p>"I didn't know he was a solicitor, but he is a relation of Mr.
Parrish's, I believe," Quarles answered.</p>
<p>"I was not aware of that," Baines returned. "Mr. Eade's office is in
West Street—No. 40, I think. He comes in here occasionally to make
small purchases."</p>
<p>"Not a bookworm like his uncle, eh?"</p>
<p>"Neither the taste nor the money, I should imagine," said Baines.</p>
<p>As soon as we were in the street the professor turned to me.</p>
<p>"That has been an interesting interview, Wigan. What do you think of
the bibliomaniac idea?"</p>
<p>"I suppose it goes to confirm your theory?" I said.</p>
<p>"On the contrary, it was a new idea to me. It would<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span> be an idea well
worth following if we found that one or two of Parrish's valuable
books were missing; but we'll try another trail first. I think we will
go to Pershore next."</p>
<p>"How about Charles Eade?"</p>
<p>"I expect he is in his office in West Street. I don't want to see him.
Do you?"</p>
<p>"We might call upon him so as to leave no stone unturned. I don't
think you quite appreciate the difficulty of this case. The man may be
innocent, but we have got to prove it."</p>
<p>"My dear Wigan, if Baines had said that Eade was a bibliomaniac I
should have gone to West Street at once. Since he is only a lawyer, I
am convinced we should get no useful information out of him. Besides,
he might very reasonably resent our interference in his uncle's
affairs. It will be time enough to communicate with him when we have
made some discovery which will help Michael Hall."</p>
<p>Next morning we journeyed to Pershore.</p>
<p>"Yesterday you suggested that I had a theory, Wigan," said Quarles,
who had been leaning back in the corner of the railway carriage
apparently asleep, but now became mentally energetic. "As a fact, my
theory went no further than this: A bookworm in all probability buys
books; to buy books requires money; therefore he must have money. In
Thornfield Mr. Parrish was considered a man of means; our friend
Baines confirms that belief. My theory is established."</p>
<p>"It doesn't carry us very far," I said.</p>
<p>"It provides another motive for the murder—robbery. The bookseller's
story suggests that Parrish must have kept a considerable sum of money
in the house. It is said nothing was taken, but a large amount in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></SPAN></span>
notes may be stolen without leaving any noticeable space vacant. Just
one step forward we may take. If such a sum existed, as is probable,
remember Parrish might at times think of burglars, might have
mentioned his fears, without giving a reason, to Hall, and Hall,
having a life-preserver, might make a present of it to his friend."</p>
<p>I did not contradict him, but, personally, I was not at all convinced.</p>
<p>From the station we went straight to the pawnbroker's and had an
interview with the assistant who had identified Hall as the man who
pawned the salver. We arranged that I was a detective helping the
professor, who was interested in Hall, and could not believe that he
was guilty. It proved an excellent line to adopt, for it brought out
the young fellow's sympathy. I asked questions, after stating our
position, and for a time Quarles remained an interested listener. The
assistant described Hall fairly accurately.</p>
<p>"He had pawned things before, hadn't he?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"You recognized Hall at once?"</p>
<p>"Yes——"</p>
<p>"There is one very curious point," I said: "so long as the articles
were his own, and he had a right to pawn them, he gave a false name;
yet, when he pawns an article he had stolen, he gave his own name."</p>
<p>"I think it seems more curious than it is," was the answer. "My
experience is that whenever an important article is pawned the correct
name is given. The affair becomes a financial transaction which there
is no reason to be ashamed of."</p>
<p>"I understood that Hall had pawned things of some value before this
salver," said Quarles; "jewelry be<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span>longing to his wife, for instance.
Why didn't he give his own name then?"</p>
<p>"It is rather the importance of the article which counts than its
actual value," said the assistant. "In this case I have no doubt the
prisoner would have said that he had temporarily borrowed the salver.
He must redeem it presently; it was an important matter, and by giving
his own name the transaction seemed almost honest."</p>
<p>Quarles nodded, as though this argument impressed him; then he said
suddenly:</p>
<p>"What is George Cross like?"</p>
<p>"That was the false name Hall used."</p>
<p>"Did you comment upon the fact when he pawned the salver in his own
name?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"It would have been natural to do so, wouldn't it?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps; but we were busy at the time, and——"</p>
<p>"And it didn't occur to you," said Quarles. "Now I suggest that when
you picked out Hall you were really identifying the man you knew as
George Cross, and that the man who pawned the salver and gave the name
Hall was a different person altogether."</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Are you sure the salver was not pawned by a woman?"</p>
<p>"Certain."</p>
<p>"But you might reconsider your original statement if I produced
another man?"</p>
<p>"If such a person exists, why has it not been suggested to me, say, by
a photograph?"</p>
<p>The professor nodded and smiled, but I could get nothing out of him
that evening, not even whether he was hopeful or not.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></SPAN></span>Next morning we went to Thornfield. I had arranged that we should be
allowed to visit the house. For the time being, the local constable
had the keys, and we went to his house first. Quarles set him talking
about the crime at once.</p>
<p>"Is Mrs. Hall still in the village?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Yes, sir. That's her cottage yonder," and he pointed down the village
street. "Poor thing, we all sympathize with her."</p>
<p>"And Mrs. Ashworth, is she still here?"</p>
<p>"No, sir. She was willing, I believe, to remain in charge of Mr.
Parrish's house, but it was decided that I should have the keys and
look after it. She took a room in the village until after the trial;
then she left."</p>
<p>"How long had she been with Mr. Parrish, constable?"</p>
<p>"About a year, sir. You're not thinking she had anything to do with
the murder, are you? She wasn't equal to it. She is a little bit of a
woman, and it was a tremendous blow which killed Mr. Parrish."</p>
<p>"It was quite early in the morning when she discovered the dead man,
wasn't it?"</p>
<p>"Yes; before the village was awake."</p>
<p>"What do you know about Mr. Parrish's nephew?"</p>
<p>"I understand he claims the property as next-of-kin," said the
constable; "but he hasn't been near the place, so I don't suppose he
expects to be much richer for his uncle's death."</p>
<p>Quarles and I went through the village to Parrish's house, which was
the most important in the street, but was of no great size. The room
in which the dead man had been found was lined with books, and, with
some excitement manifest in his face, Quarles took several volumes
from the shelves and examined them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></SPAN></span>"Value here, Wigan. The old gentleman knew what he was buying. These
shelves represent a lot of money, even if he had no other investments.
Have you the list of the books Hall was recommended to keep?"</p>
<p>I had. There were eighteen books in all, such classics as "Lamb's
Essays," "Reynold's Discourses," and "Pope's Homer." We found only ten
of them, and careful search convinced us that the others were not on
the shelves.</p>
<p>"If you are looking for a cryptogram—a key to the hiding place of a
fortune—the missing books spoil it," I said.</p>
<p>"I confess that something of the kind was in my mind," said Quarks
excitedly, "but the missing books are going to help us. The old
gentleman had not read these books himself. See, Wigan, uncut pages;
at least"—he took out a penknife—"not uncut, but carefully gummed
together. I hadn't thought of this."</p>
<p>He slit the pages apart, and from between them took a ten-pound note.
Other pages, when unfastened, yielded other notes—five pounds, twenty
pounds, and one was for fifty pounds.</p>
<p>"Enough, Wigan!" he exclaimed. "We've something better to do than find
bank-notes. You must see the constable at once, and tell him there is
treasure in this house which requires special protection. Then
communicate with the Birmingham police, and tell them not to lose
sight of Charles Eade, and let them also have a description of Mrs.
Ashworth. I expect she is lying low in Birmingham."</p>
<p>"I don't follow your line of reasoning, professor."</p>
<p>"I had no very definite theory beyond thinking that Mr. Parrish must
be a man of considerable means," said Quarles. "That fact once
established, we had a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></SPAN></span> motive for the murder, which did not seem
applicable to Michael Hall. It was said that nothing beyond the salver
was missing. Only Mrs. Ashworth could establish that fact. You
remember Zena's question: 'How was it, since people were such early
risers in Thornfield, that Mrs. Ashworth had to wait so long before
anyone came?' There was one obvious answer. She was up much earlier
than usual that morning, perhaps had not been to bed that night. The
constable had said that the village was not awake. Again, it was Mrs.
Ashworth who gave information about the nephew in Birmingham. It is
possible Parrish may have mentioned him to his housekeeper, but, since
she had only been with him a year, and the old gentleman held no
communication with his nephew, it is unlikely. Once more, the
housekeeper was a little too definite about the time. She had a story
to tell. The precision might be the result of careful rehearsal. These
points were in my mind from the first, but they were too slight for
evidence. Now the missing volumes give us the link we want. Who could
have taken them? Either Mrs. Ashworth, or someone with her connivance.
I don't think it was Mrs. Ashworth. I believe it was the man who
murdered Mr. Parrish."</p>
<p>"His nephew?"</p>
<p>"Charles Eade; but I do not think he is his nephew. Let me reconstruct
the plot. Supposing Eade, either from Mr. Baines or from some
assistant in his shop, heard of Parrish and his eccentricities, he
would naturally assume that a lot of money was kept in this house.
When, a year ago, Mr. Parrish wanted a housekeeper the opportunity
came to establish a footing here; so Mrs. Ashworth, the accomplice,
came to Thornfield. A man like Parrish would be secretive, not easy
to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></SPAN></span> watch; but in time the housekeeper would find out where he hid his
money, and would note the books. She would only be able to note those
used during the past year—the eight books which are missing, Wigan.
Now the robbery had to be carefully arranged, suspicion must be thrown
upon someone, and Hall was at hand. To emphasize his need of money,
the salver was pawned, I thought by Mrs. Ashworth, but doubtless Eade
did it himself, choosing a busy time. The scoundrels chose the night
when Hall was having supper with the old man, and whether the original
intention was robbery only or murder, everything worked in their
favor. Eade took the eight books away that night, and the housekeeper
stayed to give the alarm and tell her story. Now, mark what happens.
After the murder a will is found in which eighteen books are
mentioned, and immediately we hear through Mrs. Ashworth that Mr.
Parrish has a nephew living, who, as the constable tells us, had laid
claim to the property. The villains are greedy, and want the other ten
volumes."</p>
<p>"Is there any real evidence to support the story, professor?"</p>
<p>"Yes; those eight missing books, which will be found in the possession
of Charles Eade."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Few men have received less sympathy than Charles Eade when he paid the
last penalty of the law. He was not only a murderer, but had intended
to let an innocent man suffer. The missing volumes were found, and
some of the money saved; and it was a satisfaction that Mrs. Ashworth,
who was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, confessed. Her story
agreed with Quarles's theory in almost every particular, even to the
fact that Eade was no relation to the dead man.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></SPAN></span>Quarles and I visited the Halls afterward, and the professor very
simply told them of his experience, offering no explanation,
expressing no opinion.</p>
<p>But as we traveled back to London, he said to me:</p>
<p>"If men were ready to receive them, such manifestations of mercy would
be constant experiences. Is it not only natural they should be? Take a
child; he is only happy and secure because every moment of his life
his parents help him, protect him, think for him. Without such care
and thought, would he live to become a man? It is a marvelous thing
that, whereas a child learns to lean wholly on the wisdom of his
parents, man, as a rule, seems incapable of wholly trusting an
Almighty wisdom; and, when he is forced to realize it, calls it
miraculous. The miracle would be if these things did not happen."</p>
<p>I did not answer. We were both silent until the train ran into
Paddington.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></SPAN></span></p>
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