"What instrument did he play?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, a sad end. Henley, you say his name was—I see there is 'H' marked in pencil in his hat."
"He called himself Henley," I answered; "it may not have been his real name. As I said, his companions know very little about him."
"So his friends, if he has any, cannot be advised of the tragedy. This company of mummers is alone in its mourning for him. I should like to examine this hat more closely, Wigan. Can I take it away with me?"
I arranged for him to do so, and we went back to the hotel.
"Do you find it an interesting case, Professor?" I asked.
"It certainly presents some difficulties which are interesting. The clue may lie in Henley's unknown past, and that might be a difficulty not to be overcome; or we may find the clue in jealousy."
"You surely are not thinking that—"
"Oh, I have not got so far as suspecting Watson or any of his companions," said Quarles, "but certain facts force us to keep an open mind, Wigan. To begin with, there was apparently no struggle before death. The blow was not so severe that a comparatively weak arm might not have delivered it, a woman's, for the sake of argument. We may, therefore, deduct two theories at once. He probably had no suspicion or fear of the person in whose company he was, and I think the doctor will endorse our statement if we affirm that he was not in a healthy condition. Personally, I should credit Henley with a fairly rapid past, which may account for his companions not looking upon the body with any particular kindness, as you noticed."