9 Dartmoor Terrace, just as if I had spent that memorable night there myself; and I can assure you that it gave me great pleasure to watch the faces of the two men most interested in the verdict of this coroner’s jury.

“Everyone’s sympathy had by now entirely veered round to young Bloggs, who for years had been brought up to expect a fortune, and had then, at the last moment, been defrauded of it, through what looked already much like a crime. The deed of gift had, of course, not been what the lawyers call ‘completed’. It had rested in Mrs Yule’s desk, and had never been ‘delivered’ by the donor to the donee, or even to another person on his behalf.

“Young Bloggs, therefore, saw himself suddenly destined to live his life as penniless as he had been when he was still the old gardener’s son.

 “No doubt the public felt that what lurked mostly in his mind was a desire for revenge, and I think everyone forgave him when he gave his evidence with a distinct tone of animosity against the woman who had apparently succeeded in robbing him of a fortune.

“He had only met Mrs William Yule once before, he explained, but he was ready to swear that it was she who called that night. As for the original motive of the quarrel between the two ladies, young Bloggs was inclined to think that it was mostly on the question of money.

“‘Mrs William,’ continued the young man, ‘made certain peremptory demands on Mrs Yule, which the old lady bitterly resented.’

“But here there was an awful and sudden interruption. William Yule, now quite beside himself with rage, had with one bound reached the witness-box, and struck young Bloggs a violent blow in the face.

“‘Liar and cheat!’ he roared, ‘take that!’

“And he prepared to deal the young man another even more vigorous blow, when he was overpowered and seized by the constables. Young Bloggs had become positively livid; his face looked grey and ashen, except there, where his powerful assailant’s fist had left a deep purple mark.

“‘You have done your wife’s cause no good,’ remarked the coroner dryly, as William Yule, sullen and defiant, was forcibly dragged back to his place. ‘I shall adjourn the inquest until Monday, and will expect Mrs Yule to be present and explain exactly what happened after her quarrel with the deceased, and why she left the house so suddenly and mysteriously that night.’

“William Yule tried an explanation even then. His wife had never left the studio in Sheriff Road, West Hampstead, the whole of that Thursday evening. It was a fearfully stormy night, and she never went outside the door. But the Yules kept no servant at the cheap little rooms; a charwoman used to come in every morning only for an hour or two, to do the rough work; there was no one, therefore, except the husband himself to prove Mrs William Yule’s alibi.

“At the adjourned inquest, on the Monday, Mrs William Yule duly appeared; she was a young, delicate-looking woman, with a patient and suffering face, that had not an atom of determination or vice in it.

“Her evidence was very simple; she merely swore solemnly that she had spent the whole evening indoors, she had never been to 9 Dartmoor Terrace in her life, and, as a matter of fact, would never have dared to call on her irreconcilable mother-in-law. Neither she nor her husband were specially in want of money either.

“‘My husband had just sold a picture at the Watercolour Institute,’ she explained, ‘we were not hard up; and certainly I should never have attempted to make the slightest demand on Mrs Yule.’

“There the matter had to rest with regard to the theft of the document, for that was no business of the coroner’s or of the jury. According to medical evidence the old lady’s death had been due to a very natural and possible accident – a sudden feeling of giddiness – and the verdict had to be in accordance with this.

“There was no real proof against Mrs William Yule – only one man’s word, that of young Bloggs; and it would no doubt always have been felt that his evidence might not be wholly unbiased. He was therefore well advised not to prosecute. The world was quite content to believe that the Yules had planned and executed the theft, but he never would have got a conviction against Mrs William Yule just on his own evidence.”

4

“Then William Yule and his wife were left in full possession of their fortune?” I asked eagerly.

“Yes, they were,” he replied; “but they had to go and travel abroad for a while, feeling was so high against them. The deed, of course, not having been ‘delivered’, could not be upheld in a court of law; that was the opinion of several eminent counsel whom Mr Statham, with a lofty sense of justice, consulted on behalf of young Bloggs.”

“And young Bloggs was left penniless?”

“No,” said the man in the corner, as, with a weird and satisfied smile, he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket; “the friends of the late Mrs Yule subscribed the sum of £1,000 for him, for they all thought he had been so terribly badly treated, and Mr Statham has taken him in his office as articled pupil. No! no! young Bloggs has not done so badly either –”

“What seems strange to me,” I remarked, “is that, for all she knew, Mrs William Yule might have committed only a silly and purposeless theft. If Mrs Yule had not died suddenly and accidentally the next morning, she would, no doubt, have executed a fresh deed of gift, and all would have been in statu quo.”

“Exactly,” he replied dryly, whilst his fingers fidgeted nervously with his bit of string.

“Of course,” I suggested, for I felt that the funny creature wanted to be drawn out; “she may have reckoned on the old lady’s weak heart, and the shock to her generally, but it was, after all, very problematical.”

“Very,” he said, “and surely you are not still under the impression that Mrs Yule’s death was purely the result of an accident?”

“What else could it be?” I urged.

“The result of a slight push from the top of the stairs,” he remarked placidly, whilst a complicated knot went to join a row of its fellows.

“But Mrs William Yule had left the house before midnight – or, at any rate, someone had. Do you think she had an accomplice?”

“I think,” he said excitedly, “that the mysterious visitor who left the house that night had an instigator whose name was William Bloggs.”

“I don’t understand,” I gasped in amazement.

“Point No. 1,” he shrieked, while the row of knots followed each other in rapid succession. “Young Bloggs swore a lie when he swore that it was Mrs William Yule who called at Dartmoor Terrace that night.”

“What makes you say that?” I retorted.

“One very simple fact,” he replied, “so simple that it was, of course, overlooked. Do you remember that one of the things which Annie overheard was old Mrs Yule’s irate words, ‘Very well, you may sleep here; but, remember, I do not wish to see your face again. You can leave my house before I return from church; you can get plenty of trains after seven o’clock.’ Now what do you make of that?” he added triumphantly.

“Nothing in particular,” I rejoined; “it was an awfully wet night, and –”

“And High Street Kensington Station within two minutes’ walk of Dartmoor Terrace, with plenty of trains to West Hampstead, and Sheriff Road within two minutes of this latter station,” he shrieked, getting more and more excited, “and the hour only about ten o’clock, when there are plenty of trains from one part of London to another? Old Mrs Yule, with her irascible temper and obstinate ways, would have said: ‘There’s the station, not two minutes’ walk; get out of my house, and don’t ever let me see your face again.’ Wouldn’t she, now?”

“It certainly seems more likely.”

“Of course it does. She only allowed the woman to stay because the woman had either a very long way to go to get a train, or perhaps had missed her last train – a connection on a branch line presumably – and could not possibly get home at all that night.”

“Yes, that sounds logical,” I admitted.

“Point No. 2,” he shrieked. “Young Bloggs having told a lie, had some object in telling it. That was my starting-point; from there I worked steadily until I had reconstructed the events of that Thursday night – nay, more, until I knew something more about young Bloggs’ immediate future, in order that I might then imagine his past.

“And this is what I found.

“After the tragic death of Mrs Yule, young Bloggs went abroad at the expense of some kind friends, and came home with a wife, whom he is supposed to have met and married in Switzerland. From that point everything became clear to me. Young Bloggs had told a lie when he swore that it was Mrs William Yule who called that night – it was certainly not Mrs William Yule; therefore it was somebody who either represented herself as such, or who believed herself to be Mrs William Yule.

“The first supposition,” continued the funny creature, “I soon dismissed as impossible; young Bloggs knew Mrs William Yule by sight – and since he had lied, he had done so deliberately. Therefore to my mind, the lady who called herself Mrs William Yule did so because she believed that she had a right to that name; that she had married a man, who, for purposes of his own, had chosen to call himself by that name.