CHAPTER X.
UNCLE ROB AND DICK ARGUE IT OUT.
"Is that in your line, Dick?" said Inspector Robson. "You were wishingfor something startling, and I should say you've got it."
"It is hardly startling enough yet," Dick replied, "but there's notelling what it may lead to. Have you formed an opinion?"
"I haven't heard lately of any dead bodies being found that couldn'tbe identified, but it looks to me as if the man has made away withhimself."
"No, uncle. I'll take his own word for it that he'd do his duty andfight it out to the bitter end."
"Mightn't he have said so to his wife to quiet her? And even if itwasn't in his mind then, it might have come suddenly afterwards. Whena man's in the state he was, there's no telling what he might do onthe spur of the moment. I don't throw doubt on Mrs. Death's story,though I've heard some queer stories in my time and believed in themat the time they were told, only to find out a little later that therewasn't one word of truth in them. The lengths that people'll go towhose minds are unsettled is astonishing. Astonishing!" he repeatedreflectively. "How often do you hear of men giving themselves up asmurderers when they're as innocent as the babe unborn!"
"Suppose we try and follow Mrs. Death's story out, uncle," said Dick.
"Go ahead. Upon my word, Dick, I almost fancy I hear that poor child'scough now--the ghost of a cough travelling through the fog. It willmake a ghost of her, I'm afraid, before she's many weeks older."
"Poor little mite!" said Dick, and paused a moment. "Uncle Rob, you'vethe kindest heart that ever beat."
"Pooh, pooh, my lad, the fog's got into your foolish noddle."
"You don't deserve," pursued Dick, very earnestly, "to have troublecome upon you unaware----"
"Dick!" cried Inspector Robson, startled by the unusual earnestnesswith which the words were spoken no less than by the words themselves."Trouble come upon me unaware! Do you know what you are saying, mylad?"
"I was thinking," said Dick, in some confusion, "of the trouble thatcomes unexpectedly to many people without their being prepared forit."
"Oh, that! Well, when such trouble comes we've got to bear it and meetit like men."
It was in Dick's mind, though not upon his tongue, "But if it comesupon you through the one you hold most dear, through Florence, dear tome as to you, how will you bear it then?"
"Go on with the story of Abel Death, Dick. The last we see of him iswhen he sits at the table in his lodgings with his head in his hands,and starts up to make one more appeal to Samuel Boyd. The firstquestion is, does he go straight to Catchpole Square, or does he gointo a public and get drunk?"
"He goes straight to Catchpole Square, and knocks at Samuel Boyd'sdoor."
"Admitted--for the sake of argument."
"The next question is, does he get into the house?"
"And there," said the Inspector, "we come to a full stop."
"Not at all. Let us consider the possibilities. There are a dozendoors open."
"All opening on different roads, and leading to confusion. Better tohave one strong clue than a dozen to distract your mind."
"Granted," said Dick; "but in the absence of that one strong clue Ishall leave all the doors open till I see what is behind them. Let ussuppose that Abel Death gets into the house."
"Openly or secretly, Dick?"
"Openly. Samuel Boyd admits him. He takes delight in playing withthose whom he oppresses, in worrying and torturing them, in leadingthem on to hope, and then plunging them into despair. Abel Death beingin the house, the question arises did he ever get out of it?"
"What are you thinking of, Dick? Murder?"
"The man is gone, and left no trace behind. If he had committedsuicide it is a thousand to one that his body would have been foundand identified."
"True."
"How do men commit suicide?" continued Dick. "I will confine myself tofour methods: by poison, by hanging, by shooting, by drowning. Itwould have been difficult for Abel Death to purchase poison; hisnerves were unstrung, and an inquiry for poison across the counterwould have caused suspicion; the state of agitation he was in wouldhave prevented the invention of a plausible explanation. We put poisonaside. A pistol he could not have possessed, because of his poverty.We put shooting aside. Hanging comes next; but if he had resorted tothat means of ending his life a very few hours would have sufficed tomake the matter public. There would be no mystery to clear up. Thisreduces us to drowning. The water-ways of London do not hide manysecrets of this nature, and had he sought death in the river his bodywould have been washed ashore."
"Therefore, Dick," said Inspector Robson, looking at his nephew inadmiration, "not suicide."
"Therefore, uncle, not suicide."
"He may have run away."
"With what object? His pockets were empty, and the idea ofunfaithfulness to his wife is preposterous."
"Very well. Let us get back to the main point. What has become of AbelDeath. We left him in Samuel Boyd's house, and we decide that he didnot come out of it. I am going to have my say now."
"Fire away."
"The man not coming out of the house, the natural conclusion is thathe is dead, and if he did not meet his death by suicide there has beenmurder done. To be sure," he said, reflectively, "there are otherprobabilities. He might have had heart disease--might have fallen downin a fit which put an end to him. Assuming this, what course wouldSamuel Boyd, or any sensible person, pursue? He would giveinformation--his own safety depended upon it. A doctor's certificateas to the cause of death would clear him. He does nothing of the sort.He keeps himself locked up in the house, and refuses to answer therepeated knocks at his street door. I have heard you say he livesalone, and that no servant sleeps in the house."
"That is so."
"Catchpole Square leads to nowhere. It is, in a certain sense, out ofthe world. Can you tell me, of your own knowledge, whether Samuel Boydkeeps sums of money in his house?"
"Of my own positive knowledge I cannot tell you; but I am convincedthat he does."
"What we've got to look to in these cases," said Inspector Robson,sagely, "is motive--motive. The mainspring in a watch keeps it going;motive is the mainspring in a man, and it keeps _him_ going. Now, whatmotive had Samuel Boyd for murdering Abel Death--always supposing,Dick, that there was a murder? He had nothing to gain by it, and itwas not he who went to Abel Death's house, but Abel Death who went tohis. And went with anger and despair in his heart. Put it the otherway----yes, by the Lord!" he cried, as if a light had suddenly brokenupon him. "Put it the other way. There was a motive for Abel Deathmurdering Samuel Boyd. He was poor, and in desperate need of money;his master was rich, and had refused to give it to him. The motive wasrobbery, by fair means or foul. If this is what occurred Abel Death'sdisappearance is explained. He's in hiding somewhere, or has managedto get on board a ship bound for foreign parts." He broke off with alaugh. "What nonsense am I talking? My wits are going wool-gathering.You've fairly muddled me, Dick, by the serious way you've spoken ofthis affair, in which, after all, I don't see anything mysterious.I've known scores of cases where people have disappeared, and havecome back after a few days or weeks, or months even, in the mostnatural manner possible. Be careful of what you do, my lad, or you'relikely to get yourself in a tangle."
"I'll be careful, uncle. You will see me at the magistrate's court inthe morning. Good night."
"Can't I persuade you to come home with me?" said Inspector Robson, inhis kindest tone.
"No; my mind's quite made up on that point."
He walked towards the door, Inspector Robson looking ruefully andaffectionately after him, when he turned and said,
"By the way, uncle, have you seen Mr. Reginald lately?"
"Not since last Sunday week, when he dropped in, as usual. Him andFlorence went out for a walk together."
"As usual," said Dick, lightly.
"As usual," said Inspector Robson, gravely. "He's a gentlemanly youngfe
llow."
"Yes."
"Been to France and Germany, and to good schools for education."
"Did he tell you that himself?"
"Florence told us."
"Dear little Florence!" Such wistful tenderness and regret in hisvoice!
"Aunt Rob thinks all the world of him," said Inspector Robson, hisvoice also charged with tenderness and regret.
"I know she does."
Inspector Robson stepped to Dick's side, and laid his hand caressinglyon the young man's shoulder. "Dick! Dick!"
"No nonsense of that sort, uncle," said Dick, gently shaking himselffree. "I've been going to ask you once or twice whether you put anyother name to Reginald."
"Now you mention it, Dick, I never have."
"Has Aunt Rob, or Florence?"
"Not that I'm aware of. We've always called him Mr. Reginald. It's nota bad name, Dick."
"Not at all a bad name, but most people have two. Good night, uncle."
"Good night, Dick, if you _must_ go." Other words were struggling tohis lips, but before he could utter them Dick was off.
"It never struck me before," mused Inspector Robson, sadly. "Can thatbe the reason----" He did not say the reason of what, and hiscogitation ended with, "Poor Dick! I hope not--I hope not!"