He thanked me very graciously, and, having installed me in an easy chair, sat down at the table and resumed his occupation, which apparently consisted in isolating fibres from the various samples of cloth and mounting them as microscopic specimens. I watched him as he worked, admiring his neat, precise, unhurried methods, and speculating on the purpose of his proceedings; whether he was preparing what one might call museum specimens, to be kept for reference, or whether these preparations were related to some particular case. I was considering whether it would be admissible for me to ask a question on the subject when he paused in his work, assuming a listening attitude, with one hand—holding a mounting-needle—raised and motionless.
“Here comes the doctor,” said he.
I listened intently and became aware of footsteps, very faint and far away, and only barely perceptible. But my clerical friend—who must have had the auditory powers of a watch-dog—had no doubts as to their identity, for he began quietly to pack all his material on the tray. Meanwhile the footsteps drew nearer; they turned in at the entry and ascended the “first pair,” by which time my crinkly-faced acquaintance had the door open. The next moment Dr. Thorndyke entered and was duly informed that “a gentleman was waiting to see” him.
“You under-estimate my powers of observation, Polton,” he informed his subordinate, with a smile. “I can see the gentleman distinctly with the naked eye. How do you do, Gray?”—and he shook my hand cordially.
“I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time, sir,” said I. “If I have, you must adjourn me. But I want to consult you about a rather queer case.”
“Good,” said Thorndyke. “There is no wrong time for a queer case. Let me hang up my hat and fill my pipe and then you can proceed to make my flesh creep.”
He disposed of his hat, and when Mr. Polton had departed with his tray of material he filled his pipe, laid a note block on the table, and invited me to begin; whereupon I gave him a detailed account of what had befallen me in the course of the morning, to which he listened with close attention, jotting down an occasional note, but not interrupting my narrative. When I had finished he read through his notes and then said:
“It is, of course, evident to you that all the appearances point to suicide. Have you any reasons, other than those you have mentioned, for rejecting that view?”
“I am afraid not,” I replied gloomily. “But you have always taught us to beware of too ready acceptance of the theory of suicide in doubtful cases.”
He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said, “that is a cardinal principle in medico-legal practice. All other possibilities should be explored before suicide is accepted. But our difficulty in this case is that we have hardly any of the relevant facts. The evidence at the inquest may make everything clear. On the other hand it may leave things obscure. But what is your concern with the case? You are merely a witness to the finding of the body. The parties are all strangers to you, are they not?”