“I guessed that the things carried off would be in that ditch, for very simple reasons. I looked about the house, and the ditch seemed the only available hiding-place near. More, it was on the way to the station, the direction Roofe would naturally take. He would seize the very first opportunity of getting rid of his burden, for every possible reason. It was a nuisance to carry; he could not account for it if he were asked; and the further he carried it before getting rid of it, the more distinct the clue to the direction he had taken, supposing it ever were found. As I quite expected, my guess was right. The behaviour of some of the people in the house might have been suspicious, if I hadn’t had so strong a clue in my hand, leading in another direction. Foster, poor fellow, has probably pawned all his clothes, one after another, and put those bricks in his boxes to conceal the fact, so that Mrs. Beckle might not turn him away. He owed her so much that at last he hadn’t the face to go and eat her breakfast when he had no money to pay for it. He went out early, met friends, got ‘stood’ drinks and came back drunk. The girl Taffs very naturally ran from the horrible sight in this room, and probably Foster had been kind to her at some time or another, so that when she found he was suspected she refused to give any information.”
“Yes,” the inspector said, “it certainly seems to fit together to the smallest bit as you put it. There’s a future before you, Mr. Hewitt. You ought to be in the force. But now I must go to Chadwell Heath. Are you coming?”
III
At Chadwell Heath it was found that a first-class return ticket to Stratford had been taken just before the 10.54 train left on the last night Abel Pullin was seen alive, and that the return half had been given up by a passenger who arrived by the first train soon after six in the morning The porter who took the ticket remembered the circumstance, because first-class tickets were rare at that time in the morning, but he did not recognise the passenger, who was muffled up.
“But I think there’s enough for an arrest without a warrant, at any rate,” Truscott said. “We shall be able to walk round and pick up a little more evidence after that. I am off to Scarby Lodge. Can’t afford to waste any more time. He was foolish to take a first-class ticket, any way. That singles a man out, and he might easily have been recognised. He was smart enough not to use his season ticket, though. That would have done him clean.”
Scarby Lodge was a rather pretentious house, standing in about three acres of ground. The path to the front door was well shaded, and it was arranged that Truscott should wait aside till Hewitt had sent in a message asking to see Mr. Roofe on a matter of urgent business, and that then both should follow the servant to his room. This was done, and as the parlourmaid was knocking at the bedroom door she was astonished to find Hewitt and the police inspector behind her. Truscott at once pushed open the door, and the two walked in.
It was a large, well-lighted room, and at the far end a man sat in his dressing-gown near a table, on which stood several medicine bottles. He was a man apparently of about thirty-eight, well built, and with sharp features. He frowned as Truscott and Hewitt entered, but betrayed no sign of emotion, carelessly taking one of the small bottles from the table at his side. “What do you want here?” he said.
“Sorry to be so unceremonious, Mr. Roofe,” Truscott said, advancing up the long room, “but I am a police officer, and it is my duty to arrest you on a serious charge—a charge of murder on the person of—— Stop, sir! Let me see that!”
“‘STOP, SIR! LET ME SEE THAT!’”