Monsieur Judas: A Paradox

by Fergus Hume

Extracts From A Detectives Note-Book

". . . It is as I thought . . . The packet was delivered to Judas . . . We (Roger and myself) met Miss Varlins by chance and had a very strange interview with her . . . She did not want me to look at the letters . . . I got my own way at last, when the packet was delivered by Judas . . . She looked at the letters, and I saw an expression of great relief on her face . . .

"Query. Could she have written to Jarlchester to Melstane? . . . Were there any letters there likely to implicate her in the crime? . . .

". . . If so, those letters, I think, have been stolen, and by Judas . . . However, I can't tell for certain . . . I looked over those letters and found nothing . . . Strange! Query, What does Miss Varlins mean by this strange conduct? . . .

". . . Roger told me a queer story about Spolger concerning the pill-box . . . We went up to see Spolger, but the whole affair turned out to be a mare's nest . . . All my suspicions now point to Judith Varlins . . .

". . . Spolger and Axton have both proved their innocence of the crime.

". . . Query. What about Miss Varlins?. . ."

[Chapter 13]

The Craft of Monsieur Judas

There was no doubt that Florry Marson was dangerously ill, for the sudden shock she had sustained in hearing of the unexpected death of Melstane had unsettled her brain. Weak, shallow, and frivolous, she was not the woman to stand bravely against calamity, and this first great sorrow of her life had rendered her completely prostrate. The poor butterfly which had rejoiced in the sunshine of prosperity was now lying on a bed of sickness, whence it seemed doubtful that she would ever rise. Through the long hours she lay helpless on her back, babbling incoherently of her past life, or else fought furiously with Judith to leave her bed, and go on imaginary errands; while her cousin, a patient and untiring nurse, never left her side. She loved Florry as a mother loves a wayward child, and although she was bitterly disappointed by the duplicity of which her darling had been guilty with regard to Melstane, yet she could not find it in her heart to be seriously angry with this poor, weak nature now broken down by a dangerous illness.

In truth, it was a very melancholy house, for while Judith sat in the sick-room watching the patient, Francis Marson was pacing to and fro in his study, wondering what would be the end of all this trouble. One thing he saw clearly, that unless he could obtain a large sum of ready money he would be a ruined man in a very short space of time. Relying on the promises of Jackson Spolger, he had thought he would be able to tide over the commercial depression now existing in Ironfields; but now that Florry was ill the marriage could not take place, and his future son-in-law absolutely refused to do anything to aid him. Unless his daughter recovered and married Spolger, he could expect no help from that quarter, and not knowing where else to turn for assistance, ruin, swift and irretrievable, would be the end.

To and fro he paced with bowed head, revolving in his weary brain a thousand schemes, all of which he rejected as chimerical as soon as they were formed. With that curious noting of trivial things habitual to overtaxed and over-worried brains, he mechanically marked the pattern of the carpet and planted each footstep directly in the centre of each square, counting the number with weary precision as he blindly groped for a way out of his difficulties.

"Spolger won't do anything. Five! six! No! he's too selfish, and unless the marriage takes place I can expect no help from him—fourteen squares from that wall. All those bills are due in three months, and unless I can meet them there is nothing left but bankruptcy. I'll count back again. One! two! three! So the house of Marson & Sons must go down after all, and Florry, poor child, how ill she is! I'm afraid she will not recover. Ten! ten! Ah, if I only had ten thousand, that would help me. Twenty, twenty-one! How my head aches! Who's that? Come in, Judith!"

It was indeed Judith who stood on the threshold of the room, looking pale and ghost-like in her white dressing-gown, with her long black hair loose over her shoulders. She held a candle in her hand, and the yellow light flared on her strongly marked features, ivory white under the shadow of her hair.

Francis Marson stood by his writing-table in the circle of light which welled from under the green shade of the lamp, but he made a step forward as Judith entered slowly and closed the door after her with great care.

"Is Florry worse?" asked Marson, with a look of despair on his haggard features.

"No! just the same," replied Judith, placing the candle on the table and sinking into a chair. "Dr. Japix says she will be like she is now for some time—until the crisis comes."

"And then?"

Judith let her head fall on her breast.

"I don't know," she said, in a monotonous voice; "it means either madness or sanity."

"Better she should die."

"Yes, I think so," answered Judith, with terrible calmness. "Poor Florry, she was so bright and happy a few days ago, and now her life is spoilt; she will never be the same again."

"And all through that cursed Melstane."

"Yes!"

There was silence for a few moments, and Marson sank slowly into his chair, shading his worn face with his thin left hand, while the other mechanically busied itself with two pens lying on the table. Judith, with her hands lying loosely clasped on her lap, stared straight in front of her with a thoughtful expression, as if she was engaged in solving some abstruse problem.

Only the steady ticking of the clock, the subdued crackling of the dying fire, and shadows everywhere! In the corners of the room, overhead on the ceiling, where the bright glare of the study lamp made an unsteady circle, on the faces of the man and woman—shadows everywhere, and, darkest of all, the shadow intangible, unseen, the shadow of horror, of guilt, of disgrace that hung over the whole splendid mansion!

"Are you going to see him to-night?"

It was Judith who spoke with sharp interrogation, and Marson lifted his head wearily as he said:

"Guinaud?"

"Yes."

"I must see him. He wrote to me that he had to speak upon a matter of importance, and I promised to grant him an interview."

"What time did he say he would be here?"

"Between seven and eight o'clock to-night."

With a simultaneous impulse they both looked at the clock. It was half-past seven.

"He will be here shortly," said Judith, looking at Mr. Marson.

"I presume so."

"Don't see him."

Marson raised his head quickly, and flashed a keen glance at her eager face.

"I beg your pardon, Judith?"

"Don't see him."

"I must."

Judith drummed with her fingers on the table, an anxious look appeared in her splendid eyes, and she frowned angrily. Marson saw all the signs of a coming storm, and waited. He had not long to wait.

"That man is a scoundrel," burst out Judith, in sombre fury; "he is coming here to tell you a lot of lies."

"How do you know?"

"I'm certain of it. He was a great friend of Sebastian Melstane's—a treacherous, cowardly friend, who played the traitor to his friendship."

"How so?"

"Because he loves Florry."

"Impossible!"

"It's true, I tell you," said Judith, doggedly; "he knew Mr. Melstane loved Florry, but that did not deter him from loving her himself. He has shown by a thousand signs that he loves her, and he kept it from no one but his dead friend. Oh, he's not called Judas for nothing."

"I don't see what all this has to do with the interview."

Judith sprang to her feet, and crossing over to the table laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. He shrank from that light touch, but otherwise gave no sign of emotion.

"Do you know why he is coming here to-night?" she hissed into his ear. "Do you know what he intends to ask you? No, I see you don't! He is coming here to tell you something—something that is dangerous to you, and must be kept secret. He is coming to ask his price—that price is the hand of your daughter."

Marson looked at her in surprise as she towered above him, and he was about to speak, when a knock came to the door. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, a servant appeared with a card on a salver. He held out the salver to his master, but Judith picked up the card lying thereon and read it.

"Monsieur Jules Guinaud! Show him in here, Marks!"

The servant bowed and retired, while Marson looked suddenly at Miss Varlins.

"Are you going to wait?"

"Not here," she said, pointing to a door masked by curtains at the end of the room; "I am going into the next room."

"To listen?"

"No! I am going upstairs to put on my dress, and will then come down and hear what Monsieur Guinaud has to say."

"He wants the interview to be a private one."

"Do you?"

Marson did not answer, but sat nervously plucking at his chin.

"You are dealing with a dangerous man," she said in a whisper, not knowing how near Judas might be to the door; "he needs a woman to deal with him. Hush! there is Guinaud! I'll go upstairs this way and be back shortly. Not a word."

She went rapidly towards the masked door, and had just time to let the tapestry drop behind her, when Judas entered, preceded by the servant.

"Monsieur Guinaud!"

The servant retired, and Judas in his dark dress, with a crafty look on his bloodless face, stood looking at Mr. Marson.

"Will you be seated, sir?" said the latter gentleman, indicating a chair.

"Wis pleasure, monsieur," said Judas, bowing. "Speak you de français, monsieur?"

"Oui."

"Très bien," replied Guinaud, with a satisfied smile; "let us speak my tongue, monsieur, if you please! I am not at home in your English!"

He sat down with a self-satisfied smile, drew his gloves off his long, lean hands, and having thrown open his overcoat, rubbed his hands together slowly, as he looked at Marson with his most guileless expression.

"Eh! my faith, but it is cold in this England of yours," he said, passing his hand over his smooth red hair. "I am a child of the South, me, and find these skies of rain not pleasant, after my beautiful Provence."

"What do you want to see me about?" asked Marson, sharply, taking an instinctive dislike to the sleek, treacherous manner of Judas. "I cannot spare you much time, so please be quick."

Judas shrugged his shoulders, smiled blandly, and came to the point by slow degrees.

"I am the friend of the late Sebastian Melstane, monsieur."

"I have heard that!"

"Alas! he is dead!"

"I have heard that, also!"

"Eh! you know much, monsieur. Do you also know that he was murdered?"

"Good heavens! No!"

Monsieur Guinaud lifted his eyes to heaven with a sad smile.

"But yes, certainly, monsieur. He died from a pill of morphia placed in his box of pills of tonic, which he had from the shop of Monsieur Vosk."

"Who put the pill in the box?"

"Eh! monsieur, do you not know?"

"Of course I don't."

Judas narrowed his eyes down to their dangerous expression, and shrugged his shoulders once more, but said nothing.

"And what has Melstane's death to do with me?" asked Marson, coldly.

"Monsieur, he loved your child."

"I am aware of that. A piece of infernal impertinence."

"Then you are glad of his death?"

"I am neither glad nor sorry, Monsieur Guinaud. I don't know why you have done me the honour to seek this interview. If you will state your reason, I will be pleased."

The Frenchman leaned back in his chair, placed the tips of his long fingers together, and smiled sweetly.

"Monsieur Mar-rson, my friend that loved your beautiful child is dead. I am full of regrets for him, but for myself I have the pleasure."

"And why?"

"Can you not guess the secret of my heart? I love your angel."

"You!"

Marson had sprung to his feet and was now looking angrily at the Frenchman, who, without moving his position, still smiled blandly.

"Even I, Jules Guinaud."

The other looked at him in a contemptuous fashion; then, without a word, walked across to the fireplace and put out his hand to touch the ivory knob of the electric bell.

"One moment, monsieur," said Judas, raising his voice slightly; "what do you intend to do?"

"Have you turned out of my house."

He pressed the knob, and remained standing by the fireplace in disdainful silence; but Judas, laughing softly, leaned back in his chair.

"Eh, truly? I think not. You won't do that when you hear what I've got to say."

The servant appeared at the door.

"When you see, monsieur, what I can show you."

"Marks, show this gentleman out."

Judas took no notice of the order, but walked across the room with the feline grace of a tiger and whispered something in Marson's ear. The old man started, turned deadly white, and with an effort spoke again to the servant.

"You can go at present, Marks. I will ring if I want you."

The servant retired and Guinaud returned to his seat, leaving Marson still standing by the fireplace. Now, however, he looked faint and ill, clinging to the mantelpiece for support. At length with an effort he pulled himself together, and staggered rather than walked to his seat.

"What are your proofs?" he asked Guinaud, in a harsh whisper.

Monsieur Judas, with the same stereotyped smile on his face, took some papers out of his breast coat-pocket, and, still retaining his hold of them, spread them out before Marson.

A single look was sufficient.

"My God!" cried Marson, with sudden terror; "I—I—my God!"

* * * * *

Judith, anxious to know the reason of Guinaud's visit, had rapidly changed her dress, and was about to go down again to the study when Florry's nurse called her in to look at the invalid. The girl was in one of those terrible paroxysms of excitement, common to delirium, when sick people possess unnatural strength, and Judith had to aid the nurse to hold her down. This took some time, and when at length Florry was lying comparatively quiet, Judith found that she had lost more than half an hour.

At once she went downstairs again and entered the adjacent room, intending to make her appearance by the curtained door. As she stood with her hand on the lock, the door being slightly ajar, she heard Guinaud's voice raised in triumph.

"Of course, monsieur, you will now permit me to be a suitor for the hand of Mees Mar-rson?"

Hardly believing her ears, Judith listened intently for Marson's reply, but when it came it was so low that she could not hear it, and she only gathered its purport from the next observation of the Frenchman.

"You must! Remember, I know all."

"I cannot! I cannot! Besides, my daughter is ill—seriously ill."

"Ah, bah! she will get well, the dear angel."

"But she is to marry Mr. Spolger."

"Quite a mistake, monsieur. She is to marry me! Eh, what do you say?"

"No."

Guinaud and Marson both turned round, to see Judith standing beside them with a look of anger on her face.

"I say, no," she reiterated.

"Eh, mademoiselle, but you are not the father," said Judas, with a sneer.

"You marry Miss Marson," cried Judith, angrily; "you! How dare you, sir, come to the house of an English gentleman and make such a request? You—you—thief!"

"Thief, mademoiselle!" said the Frenchman, smiling.

"Yes! I know that you have stolen some letters from that packet addressed to me."

"Eh, but it is true, mademoiselle. I have just been showing them to Monsieur Mar-rson, and he is so delighted, this dear monsieur, that he says to me: 'Take now the charming angel, Jules; she is for you.'"

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" cried Judith, turning towards the old man. "Mr. Marson, you will never consent to give your daughter to this low spy!"

"Eh, mademoiselle, you are not polite."

"Speak to this man, Mr. Marson; tell him you refuse to do his bidding."

The old man raised his hands helplessly and sighed.

"I cannot, Judith; I cannot."

"You will give Florry to this man for his wife!"

"I must."

"You see, mademoiselle—"

"Be silent, monsieur," she said, haughtily; "I do not speak to you. Francis Marson, your daughter was left to my charge by your dead wife, and I say she shall not marry this man."

"Judith! Judith! I have seen—I have seen the papers."

"Ah!" said Judith, with a long-drawn breath, "you have seen the papers."

"But yes, certainly," observed Judas, with a sneer. "And having seen them, monsieur is prepared to give me his child. Is it not so?"

Marson nodded his head mechanically, but Judith, standing beside him, turned suddenly on the smiling Frenchman with such vehemence, that he recoiled from her fury.

"You have threatened an old man," she hissed, angrily. "You have learned a secret by chance, and you use it for your own base ends. But it shall not be; I say it shall not be."

"And I say it shall be," said Judas, slipping off his smiling mask. "Listen to me, mademoiselle. I come to you now with peace; let me go without my wishes being gratified, and I return with war. Eh! I mock myself of your anger. Bah! I care not for your wrath; not I! See you here, Miss Var-rlins. In the one hand I hold, silence; in the other, ruin and exposure. Choose which you will. The world does not know how my friend Melstane came by his end. I speak, and all is told!"

Judith had fallen on her knees, and was hiding her white face against the chair on which sat Francis Marson; and he, worn, anguished, and terror-stricken, was looking in horror on the gibing enemy of them both.

"You kneel now—you kneel to me," cried Judas, mockingly, "to me—the spy, the thief! Eh, but I remember all. There is a guillotine in your land; but yes, I know it is so. One word from me and them—oh, you know it well, I see, you gentle English lady. I could speak on and ruin all, but I am a man of honour. I wish to be kind, and I say to this dear monsieur what will be my desire. Now I go for a time—for a day. When I come back it is for you to say what you will. Good night, my friends. Guinaud is no fool. He holds the cards and he wins the game! chut!"

He walked out of the room with a mocking laugh, leaving Judith crouched in abject terror by the side of the old man, who sat as if turned to stone.

[Chapter 14]

Who is Guilty?

Dr. Japix was a bachelor, and therefore, by all the laws of domesticity, should have been badly served as far as regards home comforts; but then Dr. Japix had a good housekeeper so was served excellently well in every respect. For instance, his dinners were famous for the quality of the food and wines, as Fanks and his friend Axton found by practical experience when they dined with their unwedded host. He gave them a capital meal, undeniable wine, and as all three men were good conversationalists, they had a very delightful dinner. Afterwards, they went to the Doctor's study, a particularly comfortable room, and smoked wonderfully good cigars over first-rate coffee.

The study was a private snuggery especially affected by the Doctor, who had in it all his books, a few comfortable chairs, an enticing-looking writing-table, some good etchings by eminent artists, and plenty of warm red draperies to keep out the cold winds so general in Ironfields. On this night there was a blazing fire in the polished grate, and around it sat Japix and his two guests, enjoying the soothing weed and talking about the Jarlchester case. Luckily, Japix was perfectly free on this special night, and unless some unexpected call should be made on him, was permitted by those hard laws which regulate the lives of medical men to enjoy his smoke and talk to his friends as he pleased. All three had plenty to say, and as the night wore on towards the small hours, they gradually began to talk of Melstane's murder, a topic to which everything had been tending for a considerable time. It is true that they had referred to it in a desultory fashion, but it was not until ten o'clock that they settled down to a steady analysis of the case.

"Most extraordinary," said Japix, in his subdued roar; "reflects great credit on you, Fanks, for the way in which you have found it out."

"I've not got to the end of my journey yet," replied Octavius, grimly, "so I won't holloa till I'm out of the wood."

"You're out of the Jarlchester wood, at all events."

"Yes, only to plunge into the deeper recesses of the Ironfields wood."

"Well," said Axton, reflectively, "you've proved conclusively that I did not commit the crime."

"You!" shouted Japix, in amazement.

"Yes, I!" replied Roger, serenely. "Just fancy, Doctor, you are sitting with a suspected murderer."

"Not now," remonstrated Fanks, good-humouredly; "if I did suspect you for a moment, you soon cleared yourself in my eyes. But you must admit things looked black against you."

"So black," assented Axton, quickly, "that had the detective been any other than yourself, I should now be in prison awaiting my trial on a charge of attempted murder."

"Possibly," answered Fanks, lighting a fresh cigar; "not only that but even probably. However, you have proved your innocence, and Spolger has proved his."

"Did you suspect him also?" asked the Doctor, chuckling. "I thought as much from your questions to-day, Monsieur Fouché."

"Well, he had the fatal pill-box in his possession; he uses morphia for his Soothers; he hated Melstane, so altogether—"

"There was a very nice little case against him," finished Japix, with a gigantic laugh. "Oh, I know your profession Monsieur Lecoq; I have read Gaboriau's romances."

"I'm afraid we're not so infallible as the great Lecoq."

"Pooh! why not? I dare say he's modelled on Vidocq. At all events, you've now got an enigma which would delight Monsieur Gaboriau."

"Real life is more difficult than fiction."

"There you are wrong. Fiction is a reflection of real life—a holding of the mirror up to Nature. Eh—author?"

"Shakespeare," said Octavius, promptly, "and quoted wrongly."

"Never mind; the spirit if not the form is there."

"We've strayed from the subject," observed Axton, smiling, "regarding this case. Since Spolger and myself are innocent, who is guilty?"

"Ask something easier."

"Do you know, my good Vidocq," remarked Japix, contemplating his large feet, "that I wonder you have not turned your attention to Monsieur Judas."

"I have done so," said Octavius, quietly; "but I can bring nothing home to him. He's very clever."

"A scoundrel's virtue."

"Yes, and a scoundrel's safety."

"Didn't you tell me the other day that you thought Judas held all the threads of the case in his hand?" said Roger, turning to Fanks.

"I fancy I said something like that," replied Octavius, slowly; "but, if I mistake not, you had suspicions of Judas yourself."

"Had," said Roger, emphatically; "no, have! I have suspicions of Judas, and I'm pretty sure—"

"That he committed the murder," finished the Doctor.

"Oh, I'm not prepared to go that far," said Fanks, quickly; "but as regards Monsieur Guinaud, I'll tell you one thing. It's the custom, I understand, for the master to check the assistant with regard to the number of pills in a box."

"Yes; that is the usual custom."

"Well, I understood from Judas that such was the case with Melstane's tonic pills. Having my suspicions, however, I went and saw Wosk myself."

"And what did he say?"

"That he counted the pills in the box and then handed it back to Judas—open."

"Oh," said Axton, suddenly, "then you think it was Judas put the two extra pills in the box?"

"He might have done so."

"But what would be his motive in getting rid of Melstane?"

"Ah, there's no difficulty in answering that," replied Fanks, quickly. "It appears Judas loves Miss Marson to distraction; Melstane stood in his way, so he might have got rid of him by the pill method."

"Granted," said Japix, eagerly; "but even if he did remove Melstane by that morphia method, he would be no nearer the object of his love than before. A chemist's assistant is not a fitting match for the heiress of Francis Marson."

"True, true!"

"Besides," said Axton, taking up the defence, "why should Judas take the trouble to kill Melstane at Jarlchester when he could have done so at Ironfields?"

"Oh, that's merely a question of safety," replied Octavius, thoughtfully. "If Melstane had died here, awkward questions might have been asked, which would have been difficult for Guinaud to answer; but at Jarlchester the man dies, and there is nothing to connect Judas or any one else with the death. That pill idea is a devilish ingenious one."

"Quite worthy of a Frenchman!"

"Pooh! the virtuous English can easily hold their own in that respect; for every extraordinary case in Paris I can find you an equivalent in London."

"By the way," cried Japix, suddenly deserting the line of conversation in favour of a new one, "I went to see Miss Marson to-day; she's very ill, you know."

"My fault," said Roger, regretfully, "blurting out the fact of Melstane's death."

"Well, go on," said Fanks, impatiently; "what were you going to say, Japix?"

"That I visited Miss Marson to-day."

"You've said that. What else?"

"And I saw her father, who told me a most extraordinary thing."

"Wait a bit," said the detective, with great excitement. "I'll bet you a fiver that I can tell you what he told you."

"The deuce you can!" replied Japix, in astonishment. "Well, I'll take the bet. Marson said?"

"That Judas had written him asking him for an interview."

"Right! How the—no, I won't swear. But how, by all that's sacred, did you find that out?"

"And Judas also said it was about some documents."

"Right again! I believe you are a magician, Fanks."

"Not at all—inductive reasoning."

"I wish you'd stop talking riddles," broke in Roger, irritably, "and tell us what the deuce you mean."

"It won't be very pleasant—to your ears."

"Go on. I know what you're going to say," said Roger, excitedly, "but don't mind me. I'm going to know the truth about this business."

Japix looked at his two guests with astonishment depicted on his broad, good-humoured face, but judged it best to say nothing until Octavius explained matters, which he did speedily.

"My dear Japix," he said, quietly, "there was a packet of letters which Roger obtained from Melstane at Jarlchester and forwarded to Miss Varlins, addressed to her by her first name."

"Miss Judith!"

"Precisely! Well, that stupid old postmistress muddled up the name with that of Judas, and sent the packet to him. We met Miss Varlins, and went together to get the packet from Guinaud. I asked her to let me see the packet. She refused at first, but ultimately consented on condition that I let her look over the letters first. I agreed to that, she did so, and I found nothing."

"Well, well!" said Japix, quickly, "I don't see anything strange in that."

"Don't you? I do! If there had been nothing particular in that packet, Miss Varlins would not have objected to my seeing it. So my belief is that Judas abstracted the letters he did not want me to see, and has gone to Marson to show them to him."

"Well!"

"Well!" repeated Fanks, angrily, "don't you see? Those letters, stolen by Judas, bear indirectly on the death of Melstane."

"If that is the case, why should Judas show them to Marson?"

Fanks fidgeted uneasily in his chair, looked at the floor, the ceiling, the Doctor, everywhere but at Roger.

"I really can't tell," he said at length, very lamely.

"Yes, you can," shouted Roger, rising quickly; "you suspect—"

"I have said no name," replied Fanks, very pale, rising in his turn.

"No, but I will!"

"Roger!"

"I will tell you, and I declare it's a lie—a lie!"

"Good heavens!" cried Japix, rising, "what does this mean?"

He looked at both men for an answer, and obtained it from Roger:

"It means that my old schoolfellow suspects the woman I love of a crime."

"Judith Varlins!"

"Yes; Judith Varlins!"

Japix looked at Fanks to see if he would repeat the accusation, but the detective said nothing.

"My dear Axton, you're dreaming," he said, soothingly. "I'd as soon think of suspecting myself."

Roger seized the large hand of the Doctor and shook it heartily.

"Thank Heaven there is some one believes her innocent," he said, with a half sob.

"Tut, tut!" answered the Doctor, quietly, "sit down, my dear boy, sit down. There must be some explanation of this."

"If Roger would not be so impetuous," said Fanks, who had resumed his seat, "I would like to tell him something."

Roger looked at his friend with a gleam of hope in his eye, and sat down in sullen silence.

"You yourself say I suspect Miss Varlins," explained Fanks, with faint hesitation, "simply because I said Judas had taken certain documents to Marson. How do you know that I may not suspect some one else?"

"Whom?"

"Miss Varlins," observed Fanks, leisurely, "may, for all we know, be acting a very noble part, and may be trying to screen another person—for instance, Mr. Francis Marson."

"What?" shouted Japix and Roger in one breath.

"I'm not certain—by no means certain; but I have my suspicions."

"Of Marson?" said Japix, scornfully; "pooh! nonsense! There isn't a more respected man in Ironfields."

"It's generally your respected persons who fancy they can sin with impunity, and not be found out on account of that very respectability. May I ask you a few questions, Japix?"

"By all means."

"Why did Marson want his pretty daughter to marry that ugly wreck of a Spolger?"

Japix hesitated a moment before answering.

"I know nothing for a fact," he said at length, with great reluctance, "but common rumour—"

"Common rumour by all means. There's no smoke without fire."

"A detestable proverb," said Japix, frowning. "Well, rumour says that Marson will smash if money is not put into his business, and that Florry Marson was to be the price of Spolger finding for Marson & Son the requisite money."

"I think that's the most powerful reason for the crime we've had yet."

Neither of his listeners answered this remark, as they seemed instinctively to feel that the fatal net was closing round Marson through the relentless logic of the detective.

"In the case of Axton," resumed Fanks, coolly, "the motive for the crime appeared to be love. In the case of Spolger, love. In the case of Judas, love. All very well, but hardly a strong enough motive to make a man put a rope round his neck. In this case of Marson, however, what do we find? Bankruptcy, loss of position, loss of money, loss of name, in fact, loss of everything that a man holds most dear. A strong motive, I think."

"I can't stand this," cried Roger, jumping up quickly; "confound it, Fanks, you'd argue the man guilty without a chance of defence. You tell us the motive for the crime, certainly; but how did Marson do it? When did he have the pill-box? Where could he obtain the morphia?"

"Judas knows."

"Judas!"

"Yes. I believe Judas is an accomplice of Marson, and between the two of them they killed Melstane in that remarkably ingenious manner."

"I can't believe it," said Japix, as his two visitors arose to take their leave.

"Probably not," replied Fanks, calmly; "but I'll give you plenty of proof shortly."

"Why, what do you intend to do?"

"I'm going to see Monsieur Judas."

"You'll find him a match for you," said the Doctor, grimly, as he accompanied his guests to the door.

"Then I'll see Marson."

"Humph! two stools, you'll fall to the ground."

"I'll take my chance of that," said Fanks, cheerfully, as he stepped out into the darkness with Roger. "Good night, Japix. I'll be able to give you the key to the Jarlchester Mystery next week."