VIII. The Hole in the Mahogany Panel
Sir Henry paused a moment, his finger between the pages of the ancient diary.
“It is the inspirational quality in these cases,” he said, “that impresses me. It is very nearly absent in our modern methods of criminal investigation. We depend now on a certain formal routine. I rarely find a man in the whole of Scotland Yard with a trace of intuitive impulse to lead him.... Observe how this old justice in Virginia bridged the gaps between his incidents.”
He paused.
“We call it the inspirational instinct, in criminal investigation ... genius, is the right word.”
He looked up at the clock.
“We have an hour, yet, before the opera will be worth hearing; listen to this final case.”
The narrative of the diary follows:
The girl was walking in the road. Her frock was covered with dust. Her arms hung limp. Her face with the great eyes and the exquisite mouth was the chalk face of a ghost. She walked with the terrible stiffened celerity of a human creature when it is trapped and ruined.
Night was coming on. Behind the girl sat the great old house at the end of a long lane of ancient poplars.