“Very little,” he replied; “in fact nothing that gets us any farther. I was able to confirm our belief that Monkhouse’s attacks of severe illness coincided with his wife’s absence from home. But that doesn’t help us much. It merely indicates, as we had already observed, that the poisoner was so placed that his or her activities could not be carried on when the wife was at home. But I must compliment you on your diary, Mayfield. It is quite a fascinating work; so much so that I have been tempted to encroach a little on your kindness. The narrative of the last three years was so interesting that it lured me on to the antecedents that led up to them. It reads like a novel.”
“How much of it have you read?” I asked, my faint resentment completely extinguished by his appreciation.
“Six volumes,” he replied, “including the one that I have just borrowed. I began by reading the last three years for the purposes of our inquiry, and then I ventured to go back another three years for the interest of tracing the more remote causation of recent events. I hope I have not presumed too much on the liberty that you were kind enough to give me.”
“Not at all,” I replied, heartily. “I am only surprised that a man as much occupied as you are should have been willing to waste your time on the reading of what is, after all, but a trivial and diffuse autobiography.”
“I have not wasted my time, Mayfield,” said he. “If it is true that ‘the proper study of mankind is man,’ how much more true is it of that variety of mankind that wears the wig and gown and pleads in Court. It seems to me that to lawyers like ourselves whose professional lives are largely occupied with the study of motives of human actions and with the actions themselves viewed in the light of their antecedents and their consequences, nothing can be more instructive than a full, consecutive diary in which, over a period of years, events may be watched growing out of those that went before and in their turn developing their consequences and elucidating the motives of the actors. Such a diary is a synopsis of human life.”
I laughed as I rose to depart. “It seems,” said I, “that I wrought better than I knew; in fact I am disposed, like Pendennis, to regard myself with respectful astonishment. But perhaps I had better not be too puffed up. It may be that I am, after all, no more than a sort of literary Strasburg goose; an unconscious provider of the food of the gods.”
Thorndyke laughed in his turn and escorted me down the stairs to the entry where we stood for a few moments looking out into the fog.
“It seems thicker than ever,” said he. “However, you can’t miss your way. But keep a look-out as you go, in case our friend is still waiting at the corner. Good night!”
I returned his farewell and plunged into the fog, steering for the corner of the library, and was so fortunate as to strike the wall within a few yards of it. From thence I felt my way without difficulty to the Terrace where I halted for a moment to look about and listen; and as there was no sign, visible or audible of any loiterer at the corner, I groped my way into the passage and so home to my chambers without meeting a single human creature.