“The murdered man, Endacott, and I were associated in a very large business established in China, Alexandria and New York. We were together for over twenty years. For the last ten years he was my partner. We wound up the business a little over twelve months ago and he brought a great fortune to England.”
“You were his partner,” Major Holmes repeated in a tone of considerable surprise.
“No one in this neighbourhood knows of my connection with Endacott,” Mr. Johnson continued. “I have chosen to keep it secret. Now let me come to the more precise information which I have to offer. A month or so before Endacott left the East, a Chinese temple near Pekin was robbed, and two statues, wooden Images they were, with a very peculiar history, were stolen. There were two young men concerned in the robbery—an Englishman and an American. The American got as far as the railway, and, although he was murdered by a band of robbers who boarded the train, one of the Images reached its destination. The Englishman was captured by the priests, and as, by their religion, they are unable to shed blood, he was handed over by them to a notorious river pirate with instructions that he was to be thrown to the alligators. I heard of the affair in a village where I was trading up the Yun-Tse River, rescued him from the pirate and brought him down to the coast. The name of the young man was Gregory Ballaston.”
The Chief Constable stared across the table. It was an odd story to hear told in such a matter-of-fact way in the law-abiding city of Norwich.
“Greg Ballaston!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord!”
“Mr. Gregory Ballaston,” the narrator continued, “found his Image waiting for him on the steamer, although his friend was dead. The second of the Images, with which the robbers had decamped, came, by means of indirect traffic with them, into my possession. I showed it to Mr. Ballaston in my warehouse. He coveted it. If the old superstition were true, his Image without mine was useless.”
“How, useless?” Major Holmes asked, puzzled.
“Because both were supposed to contain, hidden somewhere in their interior, a sacred treasure of jewels accumulated by the priests in the temple. If I attempt to explain the matter more fully, you will think that I am telling fairy stories, so I will content myself by saying that, according to an ancient superstition, credited by many who had knowledge of the affair, and also by these two young men, the possession of one Image without the other was useless. Gregory Ballaston left for England, taking his Image. The other, when we wound up the affairs of the firm, was brought home to England by Ralph Endacott, together with a number of old manuscripts from the temple, which had also come into our possession. Up to, at any rate, a few days before his murder, that Image stood in his study, the room where he was found shot. To-day that Image is in Ballaston Hall.”
Major Holmes sat for a moment or two without speaking. It was scarcely to be wondered at that his prevailing impressions were of blank incredulity.
“You are telling me a most extraordinary story, Mr. Johnson,” he said guardedly.