The Diamond Coterie Part 9

"Any plaster of Paris?"

"No."

"Any wax?"

"Only a small quant.i.ty."

"Too bad; I must have some. There will be a drug store open?"

"At this hour? oh, yes."

"Then get me some, half a pound at least. Now move on, I hear a horse coming down the road."

"Some farmer going home. Well, I'm off, then."

"And so am I."

Half an hour later Doctor Heath was standing in his open doorway, wondering what had become of the detective, when a light touch upon his shoulder caused him to start suddenly, and turning, he saw the man for whom he watched, standing behind him, and within the dimly-lighted hall.

"Are we alone?" whispered the detective; "is the coast clear?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Are we alone?"]

"Quite clear; but how the mischief did you get in there, man?"

"Through the door," replied Bathurst, as he followed his host into a cozy parlor, where a shaded lamp burned. "You are not a good sentinel; why, I all but brushed you; have you no sense of feeling, then; why, man, I can recognize a near presence in the darkest room."

"Now that I think of it," retorts the doctor, maliciously, "I did feel a queer sensation in the ends of my thumbs. Make yourself at home now; take that chair," rolling a comfortable-looking monster close to the round table; "there are segars and--why--I say man, have you eaten any thing since you started on this chase?"

"Now you mention it, I distinctly recollect, that I have not."

"Of course not; I will wake up Mrs. Gray."

"Pray don't; I couldn't think of eating Mrs. Gray."

"Nonsense!" laughs his host; "Mrs. Gray is my housekeeper, and she is deaf as a post."

"Well, that's a comfort, the deafness. Is she dumb, too?"

"Unfortunately, no; but as I have not been home to dine, she will think she is preparing my supper, and I will tell her you are a patient come to be treated, and that I am going to give you a bed; here," tossing something which he finds upon a bookcase, across to his guest, "tie your face up in that rag, before she comes in. She will not give you a second glance; she never troubles her head about my patients."

So saying, he goes out, and the detective proceeds to spread out the "rag," to prepare his bandage. Suddenly he starts; scrutinizes closer, turns it about, and looks again, then----

"Ah!" says Mr. Bathurst; "Oh! really!"

And he folds up his bandage, and puts it in one pocket, whips a clean pocket handkerchief from another, and subst.i.tuting it for the "rag,"

awaits the coming of his host.

"Very comfortable quarters," he muttered, looking about him, "Luxurious too; quite so. Our doctor has not forgotten how people ought to live."

The doctor's "quarters" were all that he described them. Luxurious, comfortable; and luxury and comfort do not always go hand in hand; tasteful, too. Nothing too much; nothing lacking--just the beau-ideal of a bachelor's parlor. Warm browns brightening here and there into bronze.

Books, a great many and of the best. Pictures, a very few, and all rare and beautiful. Bronzes and statuettes in plenty. Bric-a-bric, not any, for no fair and foolish woman has trailed her skirts through these apartments, leaving traces of her presence in the shape of those small and costly abominations, yclept "ceramics."

Presently Doctor Heath reappears, and not long after, Mrs. Gray bears in a heaped-up tray of edibles. Then Doctor Heath sets forth brandy and wine, and informs Mrs. Gray, through the medium of his ten fingers, that she is dismissed for the night.

When she has retired the detective unties his face, and falls upon the food spread before him, as a hungry man will. While he eats he talks a little, just a random remark now and then, and his host sits opposite him, answering his infrequent questions and observations, and thinking.

In past days, and under very different circ.u.mstances, these two men have met and known each other, and Doctor Clifford Heath is wondering how much of his story it will be necessary to tell, in order to explain his present position, which, he knows, must seem a most strange one to his former acquaintance; for Doctor Clifford Heath, like most of us who have not pa.s.sed a vegetable existence, has a history, and a past.

Of that fact, however, Mr. Bathurst seems quite oblivious, as he washes down his repast with a gla.s.s of brandy and water, and pushes back his chair from the table.

"Now, then," he begins, with his usual brisk business manner, "I'm rested and refreshed, and all ready for that white wax, if you please, Doctor Heath."

"I'm quite curious about that wax," says the doctor, rising. "Just let me draw away this table and bring up another, it's the easiest way of disposing of the dinner things, and will furnish Mrs. Gray with food for comfortable comment; she takes all such opportunities to disparage 'men's ways,' and as she seems to enjoy them, I make it a point to afford her as many as possible," making the proposed change as he talks.

"Now, then, there's a table and there's your wax."

"Now something to melt it in and over; I'm going to take an impression."

There is a little difficulty about getting the necessary articles together, but after a while they are all there, and the wax is simmering in the melting cup. Then the detective takes from his pocket the borrowed bottle of chloroform, and asks for an empty vial. This being given him he pours out the chloroform carefully, and wipes the emptied bottle.

"It's a pity I can't keep this bottle just as it is," he says, eyeing the cut-gla.s.s stopper regretfully, "but it must be returned, of course; and I must do the next best. What's your notion of the original use of that little gimcrack?"

He reaches out the bottle and the doctor takes it in his hand saying: "Why, it's from one of those dainty toilet cases used by ladies princ.i.p.ally; there will be a set, uniform in size, that are filled with perfumes of various sorts, and larger bottles, of the same pattern, for goodness knows what use. I have seen the kind, but not the pattern."

"Well," says the detective, slowly, "I _think_ that I have seen the pattern; but where? However," dipping a stick into the melting wax, "I shall find out, and before very long."

"I wonder," says Doctor Heath, stretching out his hand for a fresh segar, "at the fellows leaving such a testimonial as that behind them.

What's your theory?"

"I have expected that question from both yourself and Miss Wardour. I am glad she did not ask me."

"Why?"

The detective takes a spoon and dips up his wax, letting it drip from the spoon, drop by drop. It is ready for use, and, without seeming aware of the doctor's presence, he busies himself with his impression taking--seeing which, Doctor Heath smokes on, and is silent.

Finally, his mould is set to cool, and the detective resumes his seat; and, quite ignoring that long neglected monosyllable of inquiry, uttered by his host, begins:

"When the burglars, for, no doubt, there were two of them, entered Miss Wardour's dressing room, they carried one dark lantern. This, one of them took, and crept with it into the sleeping room; here, he was, for a moment, troubled. He had prepared himself with the chloroform, but must use his own handkerchief, and that is marked."

"Oh! a burglar with marked linen!"

"Even so. It's nothing unusual. You reason like a reader of too many novels. Burglars are not all escaped convicts, blear eyed and hideous; nor do they all go about in fustian. It's the burglar in broadcloth that makes us the trouble. Fustian starves, and steals, and is soon found out; runs away with its booty, as a dog runs away with its bone.

Broadcloth is wiser, just as a skilled workman is wiser than a hod carrier. It brings to its service tact, study,--who knows what, of scientific skill? It looks before it leaps; it plans before it executes; and it covers up all traces of its progress, or else leaves a network of false clues and misleading evidences. Bah! if we had only fustian to deal with, it would not be worth while to be a detective."

"Granted," says the doctor, drumming impatiently upon the table, with the fingers of his strong, white, right hand. "We have to deal with a broadcloth burglar, who marks his linen, and, perhaps, perfumes it.

_Was_ it perfumed? I forgot."

"It was not perfumed. I wish it had been. Yes, ours is a broadcloth burglar. When he approached Miss Wardour's bedside, he produced from a convenient pocket, his stupefying drug; and then he looked about for something with which to apply it, and at the same time, no doubt, he berates himself for omitting to provide himself with a plain, small napkin, or piece of linen. There was nothing at hand that was not too large for his purpose, and too coa.r.s.e, for he understood the delicacy of his undertaking. So, he produced his pocket handkerchief, which, as I said before, was marked; he tears off the half bearing the name, but, in his haste, does not observe that he has left evidence that the name was there. He then saturated the linen, and set the bottle upon the night stand, leaving his two hands free to apply his drug with utmost care.

Then he pauses for a moment, to note the effect of his application, or to gaze upon the fair sleeper. And then comes a sound from the outer room, an impatient call, the click of steel implements, no matter what,--he s.n.a.t.c.hes up the dark lantern and, forgetting the bottle, goes out to his comrade."