“The label was under the wax,” the former replied. “I remember Phillip mentioning the fact that the label was waterproof as well as the cork. He made quite a point of it, though I didn’t see why. Do you?”
“If he regarded the label as a decorative adjunct,” replied Thorndyke, “he would naturally make a point of the impossibility of its getting washed off, which was the object of the waxing.”
“I suppose he would,” Varney agreed in an absent tone and still looking curiously at Thorndyke. He had a feeling that the latter’s mildly facetious reply was not quite “in key” with the very definite question. Why had that question been asked? Had Thorndyke anything in his mind? Probably not. What could he have? At any rate it was of no consequence to him, Varney.
In which he was, perhaps, mistaken. Thorndyke had been deeply interested in the history of the button. Here was one of those queer, incalculable trivialities which so often crop up in the course of a criminal trial. By this time, no doubt, that quaint button was detached and drifting about in the sea, or lying unnoticed on some lonely beach among the high-water jetsam. The mere cork would be hardly recognizable, but if the label had been protected by the wax, it would be identifiable with absolute certainty. And, if ever it should be identified, its testimony would go to prove the improbability that Daniel Purcell ever went ashore at Penzance.
Chapter XI.
In Which Varney Has an Inspiration
The adjournment to the drawing-room was the signal for Varney to fetch his portfolio and exhibit his little collection, which he did with a frank interest and pleasure in his works that was yet entirely free from any appearance of vanity. Thorndyke examined the proofs with a curiosity that was not wholly artistic. Varney interested him profoundly. There was about him a certain reminiscence of Benvenuto Cellini, a combination of the thoroughgoing rascal with the sincere and enthusiastic artist. But Thorndyke could not make up his mind how close the parallel was. From Cellini’s grossness Varney appeared to be free; but how about the other vices. Had Varney been forced into wrongdoing by the pressure of circumstances on a weak will? Or was he a criminal by choice and temperament? That was what Thorndyke could not decide.
An artist’s work may show only one side of his character, but it shows that truthfully and unmistakably. A glance through Varney’s works made it clear that he was an artist of no mean talent. There was not only skill, which Thorndyke had looked for, but a vein of poetry which he noted with appreciation and almost with regret.
“You don’t seem to value your aquatints,” he said, “but I find them very charming. This sea-scape with the fleet of luggers half hidden in the mist and the lighthouse peeping over the top of the fog-bank, is really wonderful. You couldn’t have done that with the point.”
“No,” Varney agreed; “every process has its powers and its limitations.”
“The lighthouse, I suppose, is no lighthouse in particular?”