The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

Thorndyke produced from his pocket a cigar case from which he extracted a pill-box and the labelled microscope-slide.

“There are two little water-worn fragments in the pill-box,” he explained, “and three similar ones which I have ground into sections. I am sorry the specimens are so small, but they are the largest I had.”

Mr. Burston took the pill-box, and, tipping the two tiny pebbles into the palm of his hand, inspected them through a Coddington lens.

“M’ yes,” said he, “I don’t think it will be very difficult to decide what this is. I think I could tell you offhand. But I won’t. I’ll put it through the regular tests and make quite sure of it; and meanwhile you had better have a browse around the museum.”

He bustled off to some inner sanctum of the Curator’s domain and Thorndyke adopted his advice by straying out into the galleries. But he had little opportunity to study the contents of the cases, for in a few minutes Mr. Burston returned with a slip of paper in his hand.

“Now,” he said facetiously as they re-entered the room, “you see there’s no deception.” He laid his slip of paper on the table beside Thorndyke’s and invited the latter to “turn up the cards.” Thorndyke accordingly turned over the two slips of paper. Each bore the single word “Phonolite.”

“I knew you had spotted it,” said Burston. “However, you have now got corroborative evidence and I suppose you are happy. I only hope I haven’t helped to send some poor devil to chokee or worse. Good-bye! Glad you brought the things to me.” He restored the pill-box and slide and, having shaken hands heartily, returned to his lair, while Thorndyke went forth into Jermyn Street and took his way thoughtfully eastward.

In a scientific sense the Purcell case was now complete. But the more he thought about it the more did he feel the necessity for bringing the scheme of evidence into closer conformity with traditional legal practice. Even to a judge, a purely theoretical train of evidence might seem inconclusive; to a jury who had been well pounded by a persuasive counsel it would probably appear quite unconvincing. It would be necessary to obtain corroboration along different lines and in a new direction; and the direction in which it would be well to explore in the first place was the ancient precinct of Lincoln’s Inn where, at 62 Old Buildings, Mr. John Rodney had his professional chambers.

Now, at the very moment when Thorndyke was proceeding with swift strides from the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street towards Lincoln’s Inn on business of the most critical importance to Mr. Varney, it was decreed by the irony of fate that the latter gentleman should be engaged in bringing his affairs to a crisis of another kind. For some time past he had been watching with growing impatience the dilatory proceedings of the lawyers in regard to Margaret’s petition. Especially had he chafed at the farce of the private detective, searching, as he knew, for a man whose body was lying on the bed of the sea hundreds of miles away from the area of the search. He was deeply disappointed, too. For when his advertisement scheme had been adopted by Thorndyke, he had supposed that all was plain sailing; he had but to send the necessary letter and the dissolution of the marriage could be proceeded with at once. That was how it had appeared to him. And as soon as the marriage was dissolved he would make his declaration and in due course his heart’s desire would be accomplished.

Very differently had things turned out. Months had passed and not a sign of progress had been made. The ridiculous search for the missing man—ridiculous to him only, however—dragged on interminably and made him gnash his teeth in secret. His omniscience was now a sheer aggravation; for it condemned him to look on at the futile activities that Barnby had suggested and Rodney initiated, recognizing all their futility but unable to utter a protest. To a man of his temperament it was maddening.