“Yes, there is evidently some connexion, but I can’t imagine what it can be. By the way, you noticed that the American police had got muddled about the personal appearance of these two men. The description of that man who was seen coming away from Van Zellen’s house, and who was said to be quite unlike Bendelow, actually fitted him perfectly. They had evidently made a mistake of some kind.”
“Yes, I noticed that. But the description may have fitted Crile better. We must get into touch with this man, Usher. I wonder if he will be the Usher who used to attend at St. Margaret’s.”
“He is; and I am in touch with him already. In fact, he was telling me about this very patient, Jonathan Crile.”
“Indeed! Can you remember the substance of what he told you?”
“I think so. It wasn’t very thrilling.” And here I gave him, as well as I could remember them, the details with which Usher had entertained me of his attendance on the late Jonathan Crile, his dealings with the landlady, Mrs. Pepper, and the incidents of the funeral, including Usher’s triumphant return in the mourning coach. It seemed a dull and trivial story, but Thorndyke listened to it with the keenest interest, and when I had finished he asked: “He didn’t happen to mention where Crile lived, I suppose?”
“Yes, curiously enough, he did. The address, I remember, was 52, Field-street, Hoxton.”
“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “You are a mine of information, Gray.”
He rose and, taking down from the bookshelves Phillip’s Atlas of London, opened it and pored over one of the maps. Then, replacing the Atlas, he got out his notes of the D’Arblay case and searched for a particular entry. It was evidently quite a short one, for when he had found it he gave it but a single glance and closed the portfolio. Then, returning to the bookshelves, he took out the Post Office Directory and opened it at the “streets” section. Here also his search was but a short one though it appeared to be concerned with two separate items; for, having examined one, he turned to a different part of the section to find the other. Finally he closed the unwieldy volume and, having replaced it on the shelf, turned and once more looked at me inquiringly.
“Reflecting on what Miller has told us,” he said, “does anything suggest itself to you? Any sort of hypothesis as to what the real facts may be?”
“Nothing whatever,” I replied. “The confusion that was already in my mind is only the worse confounded. But that is not your case, I take it.”