“Doesn’t it?” he asked. “Now I was just congratulating myself on the progress that we had made; on the way in which we are narrowing down the field of inquiry. Let us trace our progress. When you found the body there was no evidence as to the cause of death; no suspicion of any agent whatever. Then came the inquest, demonstrating the cause of death and bringing into view a person of unknown identity, but having certain distinguishing characteristics. Then Follett’s discovery added some further characteristics and suggested certain possible motives for the crime. But still there was no hint as to the person’s identity or position in life. Now we have good evidence that he is a professional criminal of a dangerous type, that he is connected with another crime and with a quantity of easily identified stolen property. We also know that he was in America about eighteen months ago, and we can easily get exact information as to dates and locality. This man is no longer a mere formless shadow. He is in a definite category of possible persons.”
“But,” I objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his possession does not prove that he is the man who stole it.”
“Not by itself,” Thorndyke agreed. “But taken in conjunction with the crime, it is almost conclusive. You appear to be overlooking the striking similarity of the two crimes. Each was a violent murder committed by means of poison; and in each case, the poison selected was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, aconitine, was calculated to escape detection; the other, hydrocyanic acid—the most rapidly acting of all poisons—was calculated to produce almost instant death in a man who was probably struggling and might have raised an alarm. I think we are fairly justified in assuming that the murderer of Van Zellen was the murderer of D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two groups of circumstances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow him; and, sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able to give him a name. Then if we have kept our own counsel, and he is unconscious of the pursuit, we shall be able to lay our hands on him. But here we are at the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us to get back to the routine of duty.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Simon Bendelow, Deceased
It was near the close of my incumbency of Dr. Cornish’s practice—indeed, Cornish had returned on the previous evening—that my unsatisfactory attendance on Mr. Simon Bendelow came to an end. It had been a wearisome affair. In medical practice, perhaps even more than in most human activities, continuous effort calls for the sustenance of achievement. A patient who cannot be cured or even substantially relieved is of all patients the most depressing. Week after week I had made my fruitless visits, had watched the silent, torpid sufferer grow yet more shrivelled and wasted, speculating even a little impatiently on the possible duration of his long-drawn-out passage to the grave. But at last the end came.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morris,” I said as that grim female opened the door and surveyed me impassively, “and how is our patient to-day?”
“He isn’t our patient any longer,” she replied. “He’s dead.”
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Well, it had to be, sooner or later. Poor Mr. Bendelow! When did he die?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about five,” she answered.
“H’m. If you had sent me a note I could have brought the certificate. However, I can post it to you. Shall I go up and have a look at him?”