The Chinese Room

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 5 (Supplement)

The Chinese Room

! STARED at the telegram, amazed, incredulous. It came from Doreen Maxwell, telling me, with the brutal bluntness of a telegraphic “BASF message, that her father — my life-long friend, Stephen — Maxwell —had been found dead that morning, and implored me to return to Grey Down Towers immediately. The shock was all the more intense since I had only taken leave of the Maxwells on the previous evening, after spending the first fortnight in December at their old home at the foot of the South Downs. During my visit I had found poor Maxwell in a slough of despond. Insomnia, I knew, was his principal bugbear, but I had felt instinctively that he was weighed down by other troubles, though what they were I • could not guess, nor did it please him to enlighten me. But that fear or anxiety lay heavily upon the heart of Stephen Maxwell I was convinced. ,1 felt it as acutely as I felt the atmosphere of impending tragedy that hung in the very air at Grey Down Towers. Secretly I had fancied that concern for Doreen’s future had something to do with her father’s uneasiness. He by no means disguised the fact that he strongly disapproved the attentions paid to Doreen by a certain Leonard Travers, the scion of a penniless county family, and that disapproval had led to scenes which I can only describe as violent between father and daughter. Once, indeed, before I could make my presence known, I had heard my old friend tell Doreen that Travers was a good-for-nothing scamp who was seeking, not her heart, but the fortune which would one day be hers. * ♦ ♦ I reached the home of the Maxwells before noon, and found poor Doreen. “I don’t know how to tell you, Mr. Rivington,” she sobbed, “It is all too terrible—too unthinkable—that father could have done such a thing.” I started. Her words could only mean one thing—that Maxwell had committed suicide! “Do you mean, Doreen, that my dear friend died—unnaturally?” She nodded, and, with the tears falling unchecked, gazed out at the bare elms that flung giant fingers towards the gloomy December sky. “But it is impossible!” I cried, “Utterly out of the question! I refuse to believe it!” Doreen sank into a chair, now quite overcome. “And I, too,” she said, “have tried to refuse to believe it. But what can I do in the face of the terrible facts? No! I can’t tell you myself. You will find a police officer in charge of the Chinese Room He will tell you If I am wanted, I shall be upstairs.” When she had left me I sought out the officer, and from him I learned what had happened. Poor old Maxwell had been found shot through the head under circumstances that pointed, all too plainly, I feared, not only to suicide, but to suicide carefully meditated upon and ingenuiously carried to an issue. The Chinese Room, where his death had occurred, was a spacious apartment on the ground floor which always reminded me strongly of the bizarrely decorated rooms at the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. The walls were painted entirely over with quaint scenes reminiscent of the famous Willow Pattern; great carved and gilded serpents, with gaping, crimson mouths, twisted round the woodwork of the doors and windows, and two flametongued dragons supported the massive mantelshelf, while the heavy gilt and lacquered furniture and ornaments—which included a life-size effigy of Buddha—were all of Eastern design and craftmanship. Maxwell had been found sitting in a great gilded chair by the fire-place, but the chair ,vas turned away from the fire itself, and faced a large table which occupied . the centre of the apartment. Standing on the table was another chair, securely tied to the seat of which, with stout cord, was an ordinary rifle whose barrel pointed directly at Maxwell’s head. An ingenious method had apparently been employed to fire the weapon. From a thin cord attached ■ to the trigger and passing over the edge of the chair, hung a tin receptacle. Immediately over this tin was suspended another one which had originally contained water. There was a small hole in the upper receptacle through which water could fall, a drop at a time, into the lower one. It might take an hour, or even two, for sufficient water to drop, but eventually it was obvious that enough would fall, and its weight, communicated by the cord, would depress the trigger and fire the weapon. • A glass on a low table at Maxwell's side proved, on examination, to have contained a sleeping draught, and poor old Maxwell’s head was so set about by cushions that even when he was found, quite dead, his head was still erect and facing the rifle. With all this evidence it was not difficult to reconstruct the tragedy—first: the arrangement of the rifle and the water tins, then the careful disposal of the cushions to prevent his head from falling while asleep, then the drinking of the sleeping draught—and—oblivion. By the light of candles set in great silver sticks (for the windows were heavily shuttered)', Police - sergeant Hammond, who had taken charge, showed me everything. “A clear case of suicide,” he said, “No getting away from that.” Nor did I see how one could come to any but this melancholy conclusion. The two windows were still as they had been found, closed and latched and (as

I have said) heavily shuttered from the inside, with the bars of the shutters not only in position, but secured by thumb-bolts. It was certainly impossible for anyone to have left the room by those windows. The fireplace was a large, open one, but a single glance up the chimney by candle-light revealed the fact that the chimney itself was too small for anyone to' have escaped that way, and it was furthermore obvious that the fur-like deposit of soot had not been disturbed, nor was there any trace of soot on the hearth stones. As for the two doors—-the one leading directly into the hall was still locked with a Yale lock, and bolted top and bottom on the inside. These bolts, by the way, were curiosities. I have spoken of the carved serpents which surrounded the doors. The heads of these reptiles, looking inwards towards the door edge, were so designed that, by sliding the metal eyes of the creatures along, their tongues shot out of their gaping mouths into slots let into the doors to receive them. The second door led into the library. It was by forcing this door that . the police had gained an entrance to the Chinese Room. In this case there was no lock, but it had been bolted top and bottom on the inside, as the twisted tongues of the gilded serpents, and the damaged slots, testified beyond the shadow of a doubt. The room had a highly polished parquet floor, laid, judging from the sound of one’s foot-fall, on solid concrete ; the walls were innocent of hanging pictures or tapestries (being, as I have mentioned, themselves decorated), and the ceiling, which was slightly concave, painted blue and ornamented with gilt constellations, was innocent of any opening. Small wonder, then, that with the two doors and the two windows all securely bolted and barred from within, the police came to the conclusion that Maxwell had committed suicide. And yet, even in the face of all this evidence, I still refused to believe it, for, to do so seemed an injustice to the memory of my dear old friend. Why should Maxwell have taken

his own life? What was the secret cloud that had hung over him? A man must have some very strong reason for taking such a step, or he must be either insane or cowardly. That Maxwell was neither, I was certain. The riddle was beyond me. But in the circle of my acquaintances there was one man capable of solving it, if solution there was. That man was Christopher Loxley, a solicitor of middle age, with a positively uncanny genius for getting at the bottom of the most perplexing mysteries. Loxley still carried on his legal practice. but his income from that source was small compared with that which he earned as an investigator, one great newspaper alone paying him a large retaining fee to act. as occasion demanded, in that capacity. No soon had I thought of him than I rang up his office in town on the ’phone, fearful lest he should not be available. -But, by good fortune, he himself answered my call.

“I’ll come down with pleasure.” he said cheerily, “the 2.50 from Victoria? Right. Meet me at the station, will you? Good-bye!”

The chill December day was waning when his train arrived, and as we set out afoot through the misty lanes towards Grey Down Towers I told him of my conviction that Maxwell had been the victim of foul play. Loxley pursued bis thin lips. “And yet,” he said, “you are satisfied

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that there is no other way of getting out of that room?” I nodded emphatically. “But you shall see for yourself,” I said. When we entered the Chinese Room, Loxley made at once for the table and examined the tins attached to the rifle. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, “the water is still in the lower tin. That will help tremendously.” “Nothing,” I said, "has been touched, except, as I should have told you before, that the cartridge case was very carefully extracted by the police without interfering with the arrangement of the rifle.” “The rifle is now empty, then?” put in Loxley, “But we will make sure.” Here he pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click —nothing more. He then transferred the water from the lower tin to the upper one, cocked the rifle, and glanced at his watch. Satisfied that the contrivance was working properly, he turned his attention to the room itself. With the fastenings of the windows (which he inspected through the glass from, outside), and with the window shutters, he appeared to be quite satisfied. “No one, certainly,” he agreed, “could have left the room by the windows. We can leave them out of our reckoning altogether.” He crossed to the fireplace, examined the chimney and the soot adhering to it, and again agreed that no one could have escaped that way. “Now let us examine the doors,” he said. Wo went over to the one leading into the library—the door forced by the police. “Ah 1” exclaimed Loxley at once, “That’s good! I was afraid that there might have been a lock on this door, as well as bolts .” “Why afraid?” I asked “Well, you see, if there had been a Yale, or similar lock, this might have happened 1 A man could have bent back the bolts and damaged'the slots while the door was still open Then, if there had been a self-acting lock, he could have pulled the door to, and anyone subsequently forcing the door might have been deceived into thinking that they had forced not only the lock, but the bolts as well. But as there is no lock on this door we can dismiss that idea. These two bolts were in position when the police effected an entrance.” The other door, leading into the hall, next fell under Loxley’s scrutiny. He withdrew the quaint bolts, unlatched the lock and threw the door open wide, swinging it backwards and forwards to test the hinges. He even sent for a screwdriver and tested the screws that held the hinges. “That is all in order,” he observed, “Now for the walls.” With the help of Police-sergeant Hammond and the butler, Hawkins, we moved a few pieces of furniture, and the great idol, until every inch of the walls was laid bare, and Loxley, starting from the flreplace, made the entire circuit of the room, tapping with his', knuckles here and there, examining with special care the gilt mouldings, or beading, which framed the mural paintings. Satisfied though we were that the walls contained no cunningly hidden door or panel, Lox-ley-made assurance doubly sure by examining all four walls from the other side. “Thick, solid and impregnable—all of them,” was his finding. “We can also dismiss the ceiling from our calculations. There’s not a break or inequality in its surface. The paint and varnish on it would show a pin-scratch. Now for the floor!” But though he examined and tapped practically every piece of the parquet as we moved the furniture aside, he found nothing. “It certainly seems,” he said, as he rose and knocked the dust -from his knees, “that the only ways of entering or leaving this room are by the windows and the doors. lam equally satisfied that both the windows and their shutters, and both the doors, were all secured, unquestionably, from the inside.” I strove to conceal my chagrin. “Then.” I said, “that means that the police were right—that poor Maxwell died by his own hand?” "We won’t lump to any hasty conclusions on that point,” returned Loxley, “It certainly heightens the probability, but it is not conclusive.” As he spoke lie strode over to the massive table and examined the tins attached to the rifle. “Look!” he exclaimed excitedly, “All the water has fallen into the lower tin. and the trigger lias not been released!” The Sergeant and I were at his side in a moment, and saw for ourselves. Loxley turned to the butler. “Get me a jug of water,” he said, “and—yes, some scale weights." -Meanwhile lie scratched a mark inside the lower tin at water level. The tin was then about two parts full. Then, drop by drop, he add"d more water.

Wo waited breathlessly, expecting every moment to hear the firing pin shoot home. Minutes —each laden with mingled fear and hope—passed before the tin was full to the brim and still nothing happened. “Excellent!” exclaimed Loxley as he set down the water jug. “I was afraid that loss by evaporation in this hot room might have accounted for the apparatus not working. Further experiments will be necessary, but we have gone far enough to prove that that tin of water, even when full, Is not sufficiently heavy to pull the trigger. We will go a step further.” Very cautiously he slipped a postcard over the top of the brimming tin, and on this he placed a half-ounce weight. Still nothing happened. He tried an ounce, with, the same result, nor was it until he had added a total extra weight of five ounces that the trigger clicked and released the firing pin. “Gentlemen,” said Loxley, “I leave you to form your own conclusions as to whether it was possible for the small amount of water originally used to have fired that rifle.” “Impossible!” exclaimed the Sergeant and I at once. Loxley turned to the officer. “You were the first to enter this room after the tragedy, I believe? Did you notice any other string lying about?” “I am certain there was none, sir.” “That is good,” returned Loxley, “for the only other way in which Mr. Maxwell could have committed suicide while sitting in that chair, and employing this rifle, was, of course, by pulling a string attached to the trigger and passed round a piece of furniture. But as no string was found, we can rule that suggestion out. Now, rifles do not go off by themselves, no string was used to pull the trigger, and this water-weight apparatus did not pull it. “Then,” I exclaimed, “someone else fired the fatal shot?” Loxley nodded. “Fired it, and escaped from this room—leaving this contrivance to suggest that it was a case of suicide.”

“But,” I objected, “it would have taken time to set up the rifle and the tins.” "I agree. That is another puzzle to which we have yet to discover the answer." “But hou did that person escape from this room?” “There must be a way out," returned Loxley with conviction, “and I am going to find it!” He paused, stroked his chin, and looked down at the floor. Suddenly he raised his eyes and shot a penetrating glance at the butler. “How long have you been in Mr. Maxwell’s employ?” he asked. “A little over a year, sir.” “Are you aware of any secret entrance to this room?” “None whatever, sir. The very idea came as a great surprise, if I may say

“When did you last see your master alive?” “About 9.30, sir. when I brought him his port, here in this very room, as was my custom.” “Were the windows closed and shuttered at the time?” “I closed the windows anil shutters myself, sir, at dusk. To the best of my belief they were secure at 9.30.” “The doors, of course, would merely be latched at that hour?”

“I entered by that door,” returned Hawkins, indicating the one leading into the hall. “As to the library door I could not answer, although I remember that it was closed.”

“Did you hear the sound of a shot, or anything unusual, during the night?” “Nothing at all, sir. The staff retired about 10 o’clock, and our quarters are in the east wing.” ' “Did Mr. Maxwell receive any visitors last evening?” “None to my knowledge. He dined alone with Miss Maxwell and came straight in here afterwards." “How did he seem at dinner?” “Rather downcast, sir, which I put down to his missing the company of this gentleman, Mr. Rivington"—here he inclined his head towards myself—“seeing that he had only just returned to London." “And Miss Maxwell? Did she have any callers?” Hawkins hesitated and looked away awkwardly. “Well?” pursued Loxley, “Would you mind putting that question to the young lady herself, sir?” asked Hawkins; “I’d rather not answer, if you don’t mind. I might have been mistaken.” “Very well. Now tell me, what was the first you heard of this unhappy affair?” “I heard nothing until this morning. I was in the dining-room when Mr. Maxwell’s Chinese valet, Chhng Soo, rushed in, saying that his master was not in his bedroom and that the bed had not been used. At least, that was what I understood, for Chang Soo speaks but very little English, and he was very excited. We searched the house upstairs, and then down, and finally we found that tbo doors of the Chinese Room were locked, and I at once telephoned for the police." “You have lived on good terms with your master?” “Why, yes, sir.” “And with the other members of the household?” Again the butler hesitated. “Well?” prompted Loxley. “We have our differences, sir," Hawkins admitted. “How do you get on with Chang Soo?” “Well, sir, to tell the truth, I don’t get on with him.” “Why not?” “He gives me the creeps, sir. Always turning up sudden like without making a sound. It’s the shoes he wears. I’ve spoken to him about it more than once. And he’s always hanging about this room when it’s unoccupied. He has no real cause to come in here at all. It’s on account of him that I have given notice to leave.” “Oh! Have you?” put in Loxley. Then he turned to me. “Let us find Miss Maxwell,” he said. Doreen was in the drawing-room, nursing her grief in front of a blazing fire. I introduced Loxley, who, after a polite expression of sorrow, dropped into a chair and said : “Miss Maxwell, I am convinced that your father did not die by his own hand!” I was watching Doreen closely, and never shall I forget the startled look that came into her eyes. “But—” she faltered, “whom —I mean, how do you suspect that he was shot?’’ “I have yet to discover that,” returned Loxley, “and that is why I have come to you, for I am sure that if you can help to clear your father’s name you will only be too ready to do so. If my questions pain you, please believe that I am actuated by no other motive.” Doreen tugged with nervous fingers at her fragile lace handkerchief. “■What do you wish to know?” she asked. Loxley first questioned her as to whether she was aware of the existence of a secret entrance to the Chinese Room? Her denial of any such knowledge was convincing enough. “I was born in this house,” she added; “surely I should have known of it if any existed.” “Good,” said Loxley. “Now may I ask you whether your father received any visitors last evening?” “Not that I know of,” said Doreen, “unless he admitted anyone himself.” Loxley leaned forward very slightly. “Did you receive anyone, Miss Maxwell?” The pause which followed was painful. The question was a simple one. Why did Doreen hesitate to answer it, just as the butler had hesitated? “Must I tell you?” she faltered, presently. “I hope you will,” persuaded Loxley. “Then I will tell you that I received my fiancee. Mr. Travers.” “I see. Was your father aware of his visit?” I saw the hot blood flow to Doreen’s cheeks. “No.” she whispered. “At what hour did Mr. Travers leave?” “Shortly before ten.” For the next question that Loxley put I was totally unprepared. “Miss Maxwell, was Mr. Travers at Suvla Bay during the war?” ■Whether it was the unexpected nature of the question, or whether, to the girl, it bore any special significance, I could not say, but the colour faded from her cheeks as rapidly as it had flowed, as she answered: “Yes. He was!” Loxley again wont off at a tangent. “Why has your butler given notice, Miss Maxwell?” “Ilawkins has n .t given notice.’’ she returned, in surprised indignation: “It was mv fa I her who gave him notice!” “Why?” “All that my father would tell me was that Hawkins was an insolent fellow. I fancy that there was a question about some wine being missing. I happened to hear high words ns I went into the Chinese Room to bid my father ‘good-night.’ It was the last time I saw

him alive. As I reached the door I heard Hawkins say, ‘I will wait my own time!’ I pretended that I had heard nothing. Indeed, I attached very little importance to the remark then, for my father was subject to sudden fits of temper, and upset the staff without reason, and was sorry for it afterwards. Mr. Rivington, here, will bear me out, I think.” I nodded. “I’m afraid that was so,” I agreed; “Mr. Maxwell’s maladies made him irritable at times, often with little or no other reason. But he suffered more than many of his intimate friends were aware—” I was interrupted by a tap on the door, and, unannounced, there entered Mr. Henry Burfeld, the Maxwells’ family solicitor, white-haired, cleanshaven, and spectacled. I had met him more than once during my visits to Grey Down Towers, and knew how much poor Maxwell valued his friendship. Burfeld set his silk hat and gloves down on an occasional table, bowed to the three of us, and extended

his hand to Doreen. “Miss Maxwell,” he exclaimed with feeling, “but this is terrible—terrible 1 I was in London when I heard of it, and I hastened back immediately. I have come straight here from the station.” He went on to express his sympathy, for which Doreen murmured thanks, and in the pause which followed I introduced Loxley, “who,” I explained, “is also a solicitor, and, since I am, as you are aware, one of the trustees, I have requested him to watch the case on my behalf.” I was not surprised that Burfeld was a trifle annoyed. No doubt he felt that h? was quite capable of looking after the interests of everyone concerned. But Loxley retained his own good humour and discussed the tragedy in a general sort of way, seeking, I could see, to learn anything that might be of use to him. But Burfeld was as reticent as a family solicitor should be concerning Maxwell’s affairs, while the suggestion that the Chinese Room possibly possessed a secret entrance he pooii-poohed at once. Certainly, he said, he had never heard of such a

thing. Loxley changed the subject. “About this valet, Chang Soo,” he asked, “rather extraordinary, isn’t it, to have a Chinese servant down here in the country?”, “It is,” agreed Burfeld, “and I may tell you quite frankly that I have often ventured to express my doubts as to the wisdom of retaining the fellow’s services. I don’t like these Orientals. Chang Soo came to England comparatively recently, at the time when his countrymen were openly asserting their dislike for Europeans. ... I don’t know, I’m sure. But there it was. Mr. Maxwell liked them, just as his father, and his father’s father before him, liked them, and it has been the custom to have one in the house. You see, the family built up their prosperity by trading with China. In the old days they owned a magnificent fleet of vessels that brought tea and silks and such like to our shores, but to-day, I fear, the fortunes of the house are not what they were. This long association with the East, of course, accounts for the peculiar penchant for Eastern things—for the famous Chinese Room, and, again, for the presence of this Chinese servant.” After an interval Loxley rose. “With you permission,” he said, bowing to Doreen and Burfeld, “I will go and have a chat with the fellow.” That chat was rather a one-sided affair. To question after question put to him, Chang Soo merely closed his obliquely-set eyes, shook his head and replied: “No savvy !” ! or “No unnerstan’ ” or “Me no tiuk.” “Pretty hopeless!” I observed, when Chang Soo had been dismissed. “They all sound pretty hopeless,” Loxley agreed, “but someone, not a thousand miles from here, knows how Maxwell died. Before many hours I mean to put my finger on that someone ! ” As he spoke we heard a hesitating tap at the door of the Chinese Room. Loxley opened it and admitted a buxom woman neatly dressed in black. “Mrs. Bentley—the cook,” I explained. Mrs. Bentley entered and asked per-

mission to speak to us. “It’s been on the tip of my tongue all day to tell someone,” she began breathlessly, “but I’m that scared ...” She hesitated long enough for Loxley to assure her that she had nothing to fear, and, thus re-assured, she went on. “Last night I was just going to bed .When I remembered that I had left my alarm clock down in the kitchen—the kitchen clock havin’ stopped. I went back down the servants’ stairs to fetch it. It was quite dark at the back of the house, but lights were burnin’ in the hall, which was not unusual, because Mr. Maxwell never went to bed before eleven. When I got to the bottom of our stairs somethin’ made me look towards the hall .” Again she paused, seemingly afraid to proceed. "Well,” urged Loxley, “What did you jree?” “I saw Chang Soo, tryin’ the door of the Chinese Room.” “Did he open it?” “No. It seemed to be locked. So he went along on tip-toe and entered the library. I didn’t wait to see any more—l’m frightened to death of that man. I was too frightened even to get the alarm clock, and I hurried upBtairS.as fast as my short breath Jvould let me, and locked myself in my

bedroom.... Oh, sir, I hope I haven’t done wrong.. I ought to have spoke out before.... I’ve had no peace of mind all day.” "I quite understand, Mrs. Bentley,” said Loxley, "trust me. You have nothing to fear. You can sleep with an easy conscience. Good-night—and thank you 1" And when the good old soul was gone, Loxley, who made no comment concerning her statement, looked at his watch. “What! Eleven already! lam going to ask you, Mr. Rivington, to allow me to continue my work in this room alone. With luck I may have good news for you in the morning.” Nor did he disappoint me, for, as the sickly light of a grey winter dawn stole in through my bedroom windows, Loxley rapped at the door and entered, looking tired but triumphant As I sprang out of bed and pulled on a dressing-gown he carefully closed the door. ;-a “I’ve found It!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “What? Another way out of that room?” I asked, and, as he nodded, I gripped his hand. “Try and guess where it is,” he smiled. "I’ve done little else all night,” I replied, “I’ve scarcely closed my eyes. For Heaven’s sake put an end to my suspense. Where is it?” “It was staring us in the face the whole time. I moved it, in your presence, more than once!” My eyes opened wide in astonishment, and Loxley went on: “When children play the Christmas game of ‘Hunt the Thimble,’ they hide the article in the most conspicuous places. Even children, you observe, know that what is right under our noses is often the most-difficult thing to see .” “But surely we examined every inch of that room—under our noses, and over our noses too—walls, floor, ceiling, everything!”

“Except—” returned Loxley, “Except every inch of the doors! We accepted those doors as ordinary doors, as solid structures opening and closing on hinges like any other door. But after you had retired I examined them again. You will remember that in each door are two large panels surrounded by elaborate moulding, or beading, of heavy brass-work, shaped to represent bamboo. Now, the lower panel of the door communicating with the library is actually a door in itself —a door within a door, and you see how useful the bamboo-like moulding is, since this actually forms the hinge on which the panel-door opens. No more ingenious means of disguising a hinge could be devised, for the life-like ‘joints’ in the bamboo fail to reveal the fact, except upon the closest security, that the sections are separated and move independently, exactly like the two pieces of an ordinary hinge... But,

even now, I had still to discover how the secret door was fastened, and this, I will confess, puzzled me for some hours until I found a slight indentation in the woodwork close to one of the brass lotus leaves that decorate the four corners of the panel. I inserted the point of my pocket knife under one of these leaves and with some difficulty succeeded in raising it. All four leaves are hinged, like, we will say, the ornamental lid of an inkwell, and when I had raised all of them, the secret door swung open with a touch of the finger.... But an equally important discovery was something I found under one of the leaves. It is so important that I have sealed it up in this envelope, which will be opened at the proper time.” Loxley showed me the envelope and restored it to his wallet. Curious as I was to know what it contained, I refrained from asking him. Then he went on: “Continuing my search, I discovered another fact which the police either overlooked, or to which they did not pay sufficient attention. The shutters of one of the library windows were only drawn to, and the window was closed, but not latched. A closer inspection of that window revealed two distinct finger-prints on the glass. I have taken the liberty of running the diamond of my ring across the corner of the marked glass, and I have removed the portion to a place of safety.” He paused, and appeared to be absorbed in contemplating the grey line of the South Downs visible from my

window. “The inquest,” he said presently, “is at 2.30 this afternoon. If certain inquiries I intend to make this morning yield anything, it is just likely that we shall have found our man before the day is out. And, by the way, at the inquest I had better appear in my capacity as solicitor, representing you and your fellow trustees. No one can then object to my asking questions.” « * « The inquest was held in the heavilybeamed low-pitched parlour of “The Rose and Crown” at Upper Beedham, with whose old-world atmosphere there mingled a tense feeling of suppressed excitement from which I judged that something of the turn events were likely to take, had already leaked out. The coroner, a bald little man whose mild demeanour gave no hint of the powers conferred upon him, occupied the centre of a small Tudor table set at one end of the room. On his right was his clerk. At one end of the table the family solicitor, Burfeld, busied himself with a silver pencil and a sheaf of documents; at the other end sat Loxley, while I had a chair just behind him among the witnesses, who included the doctor, . Doreen, - young Travers, the butler, certain other ser-

t vants, Chang Soo and another China--3 man to act as interpreter. t Set up on a small, beer-stained table facing the coroner, was the chair taken > from the Chinese Room, with the rifle . and the water tins still attached to it. ! The jury, the police, and several news- [ paper reporters filled the remainder of the room to an uncomfortable degree. Before the opening of the inquiry . Loxley rose and informed the coroner " that he was watching the case on behalf of the trustees, and caused a flutter of surprise by handing the ’ coroner the sealed envelope and a cardboard box, with the request that they 1 should not be opened until later in the proceedings. One by one the witnesses gave their evidence —substantially the same in detail as the statements I have already recorded. Young Travers, the butler (Hawkins), and Chang Soo appeared to be ill at ease, or so they struck me. In answer to a sharp question from the coroner as to the meaning of the words: "I will wait my own time!” Hawkins said that they referred to the time he would leave the service of Mr. Maxwell. “We had an altercation,” Hawkins explained, “Some wine was supposed to be missing from the cellars, and Mr. Maxwell accused me of taking it and ordered me to pack my things and leave at once. I was naturally indignant, and so far forgot myself as to lose my temper. That was when I said I would wait my own time, meaning that I would leave when it suited me.” Through the interpreter, Chang Soo was asked to explain what he was doing at the door of the Chinese Room on the fatal night? “He says,” returned the interpreter, “that he used to go to that room when there was no one in it, because he felt more at home there, and also to pray before the great Buddha which is in the room.” While Chang Soo was giving his evidence, Loxley was scribbling on a sheet of foolscap almost as feverishly as the reporters themselves, so fever-

ishly, indeed, that, in crossing a “t” or dotting an “i”, the lead of his pencil snapped off, but he borrowed a penknife from Burfeld and got rather behind with his notes as he whittled a fresh point. He was still so engaged when Chang Soo was told to return to his seat. Mr. Burfeld, as representing the family interests, addressed the coroner, then in his turn Loxley rose. “My position,” he began, “is an unusual one, sir, since I am not only the legal representative of the trustees, but I submit, a necessary witness m addition.” After he had been sworn, Loxley moved across to the rifle, and, amid deadly silence, repeated the experiments with the water and the weights. And again it required an additional weight of five ounces to pull the trigger.

Returning to his place at the head table, he continued: “The experiment you have just witnessed, sir, proves conclusively, I submit, that Mr. Maxwell did not die by his own hand, but that he was the victim of foul play.” Sensation rose to fev pitch as Loxle; proceeded to tell of his discovery of the secret door. “That, of itself,” he went on in slow, even tones, “though suggesting a good deal, proves nothing. You, sir, and the gentlemen of the jury, will ask for something more in the way of proof that murder has been committed.... I will offer you that proof! Now sir, with your p ermission I am going to ask everyone intimately associated with Grey Down Towers to allow me to take his finger prints. I have the necessary apparatus here, and I will start with my own.” This Loxley proceeded to do. Next he signed his name in a corner on the back of the sheet of paper bearing his finger prints, and folded the corner down. It looked absurdly like the game of consequences. “I want everyone to do the same,” he said, “for it is essential that the signatures cannot by any chance be seen until the papers are

eventually unfolded.” All of us concerned in the case followed suit. Then Loxley gathered the papers together, and, by the aid of a magnifying glass, compared them with the finger prints on the piece of glass he took from the cardboard box. Finally he made a cross in pencil on one of die pieces of paper and as' cd the coroner to compare the impressioi it bore

; with the prints on the glass. The coroner did so, and looked up. “They are identical!” he exclaimed. Some little time was occupied while the jurymen each compared the impressions, and came to the same conclusion. Loxley laid that paper apart, the signature on its back still folded out of sight, while he proceeded to tell how and where he had found the tell-tale finger prints on the glass. “You now .ve indisputable proof that the person whose finger-prints I found, is in this room. I submit that that person made them in escaping through the library window, after shooting Mr. Maxwell and setting up this contrivance to suggest that it was suicide.” At this point Loxley, who had been staring over the heads of the jury, went off at an unexpected tangent. “It is not generally known,” he said, “that during the evacuation of Suvla Bay, the ingenious contrivance you see attached to that rifle was used to give the enemy the impression that the deserted trenches were still occupied- by our troops. Rifles fixed in position on the parapets were fired automatically by this arrangement. ... Now certain persons in, this room were present r.t the evacuation of Suvla, or are intim-

- ate with those who took part in it, and therefore they would be aware of this s fact. I was there, for one, so was Mr. i Travers, and one other person, whosa 3 name I will mention at the proper . time, had a near relative there - But I will leave that for the moment f .... I will now ask: How did Mr. Maxwell die? ... He was murdered by r someone who either lived in the house or who enjoyed the privileges of an In- - timate friend of the family who could i come and go at will; someone who, 3 knowing the movements of the house- ■ hold, could choose an opportune mo- ’ ment to slip in through one of the > many outer doors without being seen; someone who, after committing this • crime, could not leave by the way he i had come because he knew that a house dog had the run of the ground • floor at night; someone, in short, who I knew as about the household and the house itself as did Mr. Maxwell.” i Here Loxley went on to describe the : secret door and its fastenings. “In the sealed envelope before you,” i he said, addressing the coroner, “is the broken point of a pen-knife which I found under one of those fastenings. Will you be good enough, sir, to ascertain whether it fits the blade of this 1 knife ?” Every eye was focused on the coroner as he laid the knife and the fraction of steel together. “It fits perfectly!” he said, “Whose knife is it?” “Mr. Burfeld’s!” exclaimed Loxley, “I borrowed it from hi’ a few minutes ago.” We looked at Burfeld. His chair scraped on the sanded floor, and, deadIv pale, he tried to rise. “But this is absurd!” he blustered, “May I ask Mr. Loxley ?” The coroner raised hi; hand. “Presently,” he ordered, “Let Mr. Loxley finish.” Without appearing I n tice the interruption, Loxley went on:

“Although no great significance may be attached to the fact, Mr. Burfeld’s so . was at Suvla Bay. That may mean nothing as far as this inquiry is concerned. The point is: Whose signature is on the back of those telltale finger-prints? I will ask you, Ar, to unfold the paper and see fox - yourself.”

With all truth we co .d have heard a pin drop as Loxle; paused. The coroner unfolded the naper and adjusted his spectacles. “Tlie writing is rather shaky, and not too legible.” lie said. Then he looked queerly from mrfeld to Loxley. “The signature” he said quietly, "‘is that of Mr. Burfeld !” Burfeld, breathing heavily, made another effort to stand.. “A tissue of lies!” he cried. “Perhaps,” thundered Loxley, “we shall also be told that other things are lies; that the manager of Mr. Maxwell’s bank is telling lies when he says that certain transactions have been carried out on the strength of a power of attorney purporting to have been signed by Mr. Maxwell; perhaps the trustees are telling lies when they state that they are aware that Mr. Maxwell granted no such power to anyone: perhaps Mr. Burfeld’s clerks will have difficulty to convince us that they witnessed what purports to be Mr. Maxwell’s signature in bis presence. Perhaps,” concluded Loxley, “Mr. Burfeld can tell us 1 it comes about that Mr. Maxwell’s affairs are hopelessly involved —so much so th. -- he died a comparatively poor man!” But Burfeld saw that a game was up. With a groan he sank forward on to the table. It was pitiful to see him as a con-' stable helped him to his feet after the jury had returned the dread verdict of “Wilful Murder” and the coroner committed him for trial. On the way back to ( Down Towprs I said to Loxley: “To think that it was Burfeld! The last man one would suspect!” Loxley echoed my words. “Yes,” he added, “in nine cases out of ten, when you have found that man, you have found the man you are ’ king for!”