Thorndyke’s hint as to the possible danger foreshadowed by my growing intimacy with Juliet Gibson had come upon me as a complete surprise, and had, indeed, been resented by me as somewhat of an impertinence.  Nevertheless, it gave me considerable food for meditation, and I presently began to suspect that the watchful eyes of my observant friend might have detected something in my manner towards Miss Gibson suggestive of sentiments that had been unsuspected by myself.

Of course it would be absurd to suppose that any real feeling could have been engendered by so ridiculously brief an acquaintance.  I had only met the girl three times, and even now, excepting for business relations, was hardly entitled to more than a bow of recognition.  But yet, when I considered the matter impartially and examined my own consciousness, I could not but recognise that she had aroused in me an interest which bore no relation to the part that she had played in the drama that was so slowly unfolding.  She was undeniably a very handsome girl, and her beauty was of a type that specially appealed to me ­full of dignity and character that gave promise of a splendid middle age.  And her personality was in other ways not less attractive, for she was frank and open, sprightly and intelligent, and though evidently quite self-reliant, was in nowise lacking in that womanly softness that so strongly engages a man’s sympathy.

In short, I realised that, had there been no such person as Reuben Hornby, I should have viewed Miss Gibson with uncommon interest.

But, unfortunately, Reuben Hornby was a most palpable reality, and, moreover, the extraordinary difficulties of his position entitled him to very special consideration by any man of honour.  It was true that Miss Gibson had repudiated any feelings towards Reuben other than those of old-time friendship; but young ladies are not always impartial judges of their own feelings, and, as a man of the world, I could not but have my own opinion on the matter ­which opinion I believed to be shared by Thorndyke.  The conclusions to which my cogitations at length brought me were:  first, that I was an egotistical donkey, and, second, that my relations with Miss Gibson were of an exclusively business character and must in future be conducted on that basis, with the added consideration that I was the confidential agent, for the time being, of Reuben Hornby, and in honour bound to regard his interests as paramount.

“I am hoping,” said Thorndyke, as he held out his hand for my teacup, “that these profound reflections of yours are connected with the Hornby affair; in which case I should expect to hear that the riddle is solved and the mystery made plain.”

“Why should you expect that?” I demanded, reddening somewhat, I suspect, as I met his twinkling eye.  There was something rather disturbing in the dry, quizzical smile that I encountered and the reflection that I had been under observation, and I felt as much embarrassed as I should suppose a self-conscious water-flea might feel on finding itself on the illuminated stage of a binocular microscope.

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “you have not spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour; you have devoured your food with the relentless regularity of a sausage-machine, and you have, from time to time, made the most damnable faces at the coffee-pot ­though there I’ll wager the coffee-pot was even with you, if I may judge by the presentment that it offers of my own countenance.”

I roused myself from my reverie with a laugh at Thorndyke’s quaint conceit and a glance at the grotesquely distorted reflection of my face in the polished silver.

“I am afraid I have been a rather dull companion this morning,” I admitted apologetically.

“By no means,” replied Thorndyke, with a grin.  “On the contrary, I have found you both amusing and instructive, and I only spoke when I had exhausted your potentialities as a silent entertainer.”

“You are pleased to be facetious at my expense,” said I.

“Well, the expense was not a very heavy one,” he retorted.  “I have been merely consuming a by-product of your mental activity ­Hallo! that’s Anstey already.”

A peculiar knock, apparently delivered with the handle of a walking-stick on the outer door, was the occasion of this exclamation, and as Thorndyke sprang up and flung the door open, a clear, musical voice was borne in, the measured cadences of which proclaimed at once the trained orator.

“Hail, learned brother!” it exclaimed.  “Do I disturb you untimely at your studies?” Here our visitor entered the room and looked round critically. “’Tis even so,” he declared.  “Physiological chemistry and its practical applications appears to be the subject.  A physico-chemical inquiry into the properties of streaky bacon and fried eggs.  Do I see another learned brother?”

He peered keenly at me through his pince-nez, and I gazed at him in some embarrassment.

“This is my friend Jervis, of whom you have heard me speak,” said Thorndyke.  “He is with us in this case, you know.”

“The echoes of your fame have reached me, sir,” said Anstey, holding out his hand.  “I am proud to know you.  I should have recognised you instantly from the portrait of your lamented uncle in Greenwich Hospital.”

“Anstey is a wag, you understand,” explained Thorndyke, “but he has lucid intervals.  He’ll have one presently if we are patient.”

“Patient!” snorted our eccentric visitor, “it is I who need to be patient when I am dragged into police courts and other sinks of iniquity to plead for common thieves and robbers like a Kennington Lane advocate.”

“You’ve been talking to Lawley, I see,” said Thorndyke.

“Yes, and he tells me that we haven’t a leg to stand upon.”

“No, we’ve got to stand on our heads, as men of intellect should.  But Lawley knows nothing about the case.”

“He thinks he knows it all,” said Anstey.

“Most fools do,” retorted Thorndyke.  “They arrive at their knowledge by intuition ­a deuced easy road and cheap travelling too.  We reserve our defence ­I suppose you agree to that?”

“I suppose so.  The magistrate is sure to commit unless you have an unquestionable alibi.”

“We shall put in an alibi, but we are not depending on it.”

“Then we had better reserve our defence,” said Anstey; “and it is time that we wended on our pilgrimage, for we are due at Lawley’s at half-past ten.  Is Jervis coming with us?”

“Yes, you’d better come,” said Thorndyke.  “It’s the adjourned hearing of poor Hornby’s case, you know.  There won’t be anything done on our side, but we may be able to glean some hint from the prosecution.”

“I should like to hear what takes place, at any rate,” I said, and we accordingly sallied forth together in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn, on the north side of which Mr. Lawley’s office was situated.

“Ah!” said the solicitor, as we entered, “I am glad you’ve come; I was getting anxious ­it doesn’t do to be late on these occasions, you know.  Let me see, do you know Mr. Walter Hornby?  I don’t think you do.”  He presented Thorndyke and me to our client’s cousin, and as we shook hands, we viewed one another with a good deal of mutual interest.

“I have heard about you from my aunt,” said he, addressing himself more particularly to me.  “She appears to regard you as a kind of legal Maskelyne and Cooke.  I hope, for my cousin’s sake, that you will be able to work the wonders that she anticipates.  Poor old fellow!  He looks pretty bad, doesn’t he?”

I glanced at Reuben, who was at the moment talking to Thorndyke, and as he caught my eye he held out his hand with a warmth that I found very pathetic.  He seemed to have aged since I had last seen him, and was pale and rather thinner, but he was composed in his manner and seemed to me to be taking his trouble very well on the whole.

“Cab’s at the door, sir,” a clerk announced.

“Cab,” repeated Mr. Lawley, looking dubiously at me; “we want an omnibus.”

“Dr. Jervis and I can walk,” Walter Hornby suggested.  “We shall probably get there as soon as you, and it doesn’t matter if we don’t.”

“Yes, that will do,” said Mr. Lawley; “you two walk down together.  Now let us go.”

We trooped out on to the pavement, beside which a four-wheeler was drawn up, and as the others were entering the cab, Thorndyke stood close beside me for a moment.

“Don’t let him pump you,” he said in a low voice, without looking at me; then he sprang into the cab and slammed the door.

“What an extraordinary affair this is,” Walter Hornby remarked, after we had been walking in silence for a minute or two; “a most ghastly business.  I must confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“Why, do you see, there are apparently only two possible theories of the crime, and each of them seems to be unthinkable.  On the one hand there is Reuben, a man of the most scrupulous honour, as far as my experience of him goes, committing a mean and sordid theft for which no motive can be discovered ­for he is not poor, nor pecuniarily embarrassed nor in the smallest degree avaricious.  On the other hand, there is this thumb-print, which, in the opinion of the experts, is tantamount to the evidence of an eye-witness that he did commit the theft.  It is positively bewildering.  Don’t you think so?”

“As you put it,” I answered, “the case is extraordinarily puzzling.”

“But how else would you put it?” he demanded, with ill-concealed eagerness.

“I mean that, if Reuben is the man you believe him to be, the thing is incomprehensible.”

“Quite so,” he agreed, though he was evidently disappointed at my colourless answer.

He walked on silently for a few minutes and then said:  “I suppose it would not be fair to ask if you see any way out of the difficulty?  We are all, naturaly anxious about the upshot of the affair, seeing what poor old Reuben’s position is.”

“Naturally.  But the fact is that I know no more than you do, and as to Thorndyke, you might as well cross-examine a Whitstable native as put questions to him.”

“Yes, so I gathered from Juliet.  But I thought you might have gleaned some notion of the line of defence from your work in the laboratory ­the microscopical and photographic work I mean.”

“I was never in the laboratory until last night, when Thorndyke took me there with your aunt and Miss Gibson; the work there is done by the laboratory assistant, and his knowledge of the case, I should say, is about as great as a type-founder’s knowledge of the books that he is helping to produce.  No; Thorndyke is a man who plays a single-handed game and no one knows what cards he holds until he lays them on the table.”

My companion considered this statement in silence while I congratulated myself on having parried, with great adroitness, a rather inconvenient question.  But the time was not far distant when I should have occasion to reproach myself bitterly for having been so explicit and emphatic.

“My uncle’s condition,” Walter resumed after a pause, “is a pretty miserable one at present, with this horrible affair added to his own personal worries.”

“Has he any special trouble besides this, then?” I asked.

“Why, haven’t you heard?  I thought you knew about it, or I shouldn’t have spoken ­not that it is in any way a secret, seeing that it is public property in the city.  The fact is that his financial affairs are a little entangled just now.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, considerably startled by this new development.

“Yes, things have taken a rather awkward turn, though I think he will pull through all right.  It is the usual thing, you know ­investments, or perhaps one should say speculations.  He appears to have sunk a lot of capital in mines ­thought he was ‘in the know,’ not unnaturally; but it seems he wasn’t after all, and the things have gone wrong, leaving him with a deal more money than he can afford locked up and the possibility of a dead loss if they don’t revive.  Then there are these infernal diamonds.  He is not morally responsible, we know; but it is a question if he is not legally responsible, though the lawyers think he is not.  Anyhow, there is going to be a meeting of the creditors to-morrow.”

“And what do you think they will do?”

“Oh, they will, most probably, let him go on for the present; but, of course, if he is made accountable for the diamonds there will be nothing for it but to ‘go through the hoop,’ as the sporting financier expresses it.”

“The diamonds were of considerable value, then?”

“From twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds’ worth vanished with that parcel.”

I whistled.  This was a much bigger affair than I had imagined, and I was wondering if Thorndyke had realised the magnitude of the robbery, when we arrived at the police court.

“I suppose our friends have gone inside,” said Walter.  “They must have got here before us.”

This supposition was confirmed by a constable of whom we made inquiry, and who directed us to the entrance to the court.  Passing down a passage and elbowing our way through the throng of idlers, we made for the solicitor’s box, where we had barely taken our seats when the case was called.

Unspeakably dreary and depressing were the brief proceedings that followed, and dreadfully suggestive of the helplessness of even an innocent man on whom the law has laid its hand and in whose behalf its inexorable machinery has been set in motion.

The presiding magistrate, emotionless and dry, dipped his pen while Reuben, who had surrendered to his bail, was placed in the dock and the charge read over to him.  The counsel representing the police gave an abstract of the case with the matter-of-fact air of a house-agent describing an eligible property.  Then, when the plea of “not guilty” had been entered, the witnesses were called.  There were only two, and when the name of the first, John Hornby, was called, I glanced towards the witness-box with no little curiosity.

I had not hitherto met Mr. Hornby, and as he now entered the box, I saw an elderly man, tall, florid, and well-preserved, but strained and wild in expression and displaying his uncontrollable agitation by continual nervous movements which contrasted curiously with the composed demeanour of the accused man.  Nevertheless, he gave his evidence in a perfectly connected manner, recounting the events connected with the discovery of the crime in much the same words as I had heard Mr. Lawley use, though, indeed, he was a good deal more emphatic than that gentleman had been in regard to the excellent character borne by the prisoner.

After him came Mr. Singleton, of the finger-print department at Scotland Yard, to whose evidence I listened with close attention.  He produced the paper which bore the thumb-print in blood (which had previously been identified by Mr. Hornby) and a paper bearing the print, taken by himself, of the prisoner’s left thumb.  These two thumb-prints, he stated, were identical in every respect.

“And you are of opinion that the mark on the paper that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe, was made by the prisoner’s left thumb?” the magistrate asked in dry and business-like tones.

“I am certain of it.”

“You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”

“No mistake is possible, your worship.  It is a certainty.”

The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.  “We reserve our defence, your worship.”

The magistrate then, in the same placid, business-like manner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.

By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.

“This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity.  “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world ­though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”

Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty good-bye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.

“I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.

“There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however.  “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”

“That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined.  “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him?  You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr.  Hornby.  You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway.  He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spy-hole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums.  If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”

“Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.

“That may or may not be,” he retorted.  “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction; that the treatment of an accused man, from the moment of his arrest, is that of a criminal.  However,” he concluded, hailing a passing hansom, “this discussion must be adjourned or I shall be late at the hospital.  What are you going to do?”

“I shall get some lunch and then call on Miss Gibson to let her know the real position.”

“Yes, that will be kind, I think; baldly stated, the news may seem rather alarming.  I was tempted to thrash the case out in the police court, but it would not have been safe.  He would almost certainly have been committed for trial after all, and then we should have shown our hand to the prosecution.”

He sprang into the hansom and was speedily swallowed up in the traffic, while I turned back towards the police court to make certain inquiries concerning the regulations as to visitors at Holloway prison.  At the door I met the friendly inspector from Scotland Yard, who gave me the necessary information, whereupon with a certain homely little French restaurant in my mind I bent my steps in the direction of Soho.