On the way, I told him my name, but, apparently, he had never heard it, nor did he immediately tell me his. I purposely called him Mr. —— and paused for the information.
"Parrish," he said. "Bather a curious name," and then he went on talking about illuminating, evidently convinced that I was intensely interested. It was the man who interested me, not his work, and the interest was heightened when I entered his rooms. He occupied two rooms at the top of a dreary building devoted to men of law. The rooms were well enough in themselves, but the furniture was in the last stage of dilapidation, there were holes in the carpet, and everything looked forlorn and poverty-stricken. I glanced at my companion. Certainly, his clothes were a little shabby, but quite good, and he was oblivious to the decayed atmosphere of his surroundings. He drew me at once to a large table, where lay the work he was engaged upon. Of its kind, it was marvelous both in design and execution, reproducing the color effects of the old illuminators so exactly that it was almost impossible to tell it from that of the old monks. This is not my opinion, but that of the expert from the British Museum when he pronounced upon the work later.
"Wonderful," I said. "And there is no sale for it?"
He shrugged his shoulders. Environment seemed to have an effect upon him, for his conversation was mostly by signs after we entered his room. Without a word he took finished work from various drawers and put it on the table for my inspection. I praised it, asked questions to draw him out, but failed to get more than a lift of the eyebrows, or an occasional monosyllable. It was not exhilarating, and as soon as I could I took my leave.
"Come and see me again soon," he said, parting with me at the top of the stairs.
"Thanks," I answered, as I went down, but I made no promise as I looked up at him silhouetted against the light from his open door. Little did I guess how soon I was to climb those stairs again.
Next morning I was conscious that the night off, although not spent exactly as I had intended, had done me good. Some knotty points in a case I was engaged upon had begun to unravel themselves in my mind, and I reached the office early to find that the chief was already there and wanted to see me.
"Here is a case you must look after at once, Wigan," he said, passing me the report of the murder of a man named Parrish, in Gray's Inn.
Now, one of the essentials in my profession is the ability to put the finger on the small mistakes a criminal makes when he endeavors to cover up his tracks. I suppose nine cases out of ten are solved in this way, and more often than not the thing left undone, unthought of, is the very one, you would imagine, which the criminal would have thought of first. I fancy the reason lies in the fact that the criminal does not believe he will be suspected. I said nothing to my chief about my visit to Gray's Inn last night. Experience has shown me the wisdom of a still tongue, and knowledge I have picked up casually has often led to a solution which has startled the Yard. The Yard was destined to be startled now, but not quite in the way I hoped.
When I arrived at Gray's Inn, a small crowd had collected before the entrance door of the house, as if momentarily expecting some information from the constable who stood on duty there—a man I did not happen to know.