Chapter IV

As we drove through the village street, in the car which Grimsby had hired, upon the gate of one of the last cottages a tall, white-haired old man was leaning. His clear-cut, handsome features wore an expression of haggard sorrow.

“There he is!” rapped Grimsby. “Hadn’t I better make the arrest at once?”

“Ah, no, my friend!” protested Klaw. “But stop--I have something to say to him.”

The car stopping, Moris Klaw descended and approached the old man, who perceptibly paled at sight of us.

“Good day, Mr. Ryder!” Klaw courteously saluted the ex-butler.

“Good day to you, sir,” replied the old man, civilly.

Whereupon Moris Klaw said a simple thing, which had an astounding effect.

“How is he to-day?” he inquired.

Ryder’s face became convulsed. His eyes started forth. He made a choking sound, staring, as one possessed, at his questioner.

“What--what--do you mean?” he gasped.

“Never mind, Mr. Ryder--never mind!” rumbled Klaw. “Isis, my child, remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the ax of ‘Black Geoffrey.’ He will be glad to hear it!”

The beautiful Isis obeyed without question. As the rest of us drove on our way, I could see the flame-coloured figure passing up the garden path beside the tall form of the old butler. Grimsby, a man badly out of his depth, watched until both became lost to view.

“I’ve got evidence,” he suddenly burst out, “that Ryder declared Heidelberger to be the direct cause of Sir Richard’s downfall! And I’ve got witnesses who heard him say, ‘Please God! the Jew won’t be here much longer!’”

“Good!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Very good!”

During the remainder of the journey, Grimsby talked on incessantly, smoking cheroots the whole time. But Moris Klaw was silent.

Doctor Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with iron-gray hair and a good head. He conveyed the impression, in some way, that he knew himself to be in a tight corner.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said, briskly.

“We have called, Doctor Madden,” rumbled Moris Klaw, wagging his finger, impressively, “to tell you that Ryder is in imminent danger--imminent danger--of arrest!”

The doctor started.

“And therefore we want a word with one of your patients!”

“I do not understand you. Which of my patients?”

Moris Klaw shook his head.

“Let us be intelligent,” he said, “you and I, and not two old fools! You understand so perfectly which of your patients.”

Doctor Madden drummed his fingers on the table.

“Are you a detective?” he snapped.

“I am not!” replied Moris Klaw. “I am a student of the Science of Cycles--not motor cycles; and a humble explorer of the etheric borderland! You lay yourself open to grave charges, Doctor!”

The doctor began to fidget nervously.

“If indeed I am culpable,” he said, “my culpability only dates from last night.”

“So!” rumbled Klaw. “He has been insensible?”

Doctor Madden started up.

“Mr. Klaw,” he replied, “I do not know who you may be, but your penetration is uncanny. He had lost his memory!”

“What?--lost his memory! How is that?”

“He was thrown from his horse! Come; I see it is useless, now, to waste time. I will take you to him.”

As we filed out to the waiting car, I glanced at Grimsby. His stupefaction was almost laughable.

“What in heaven’s name is it all about, Mr. Searles?” he whispered to me. “I feel like a man in a strange country. People talk, and it doesn’t seem to mean anything!”

En route:

“Tell me, Doctor,” said Moris Klaw, “about your patient.”

The doctor, without hesitation, now explained that he had been called to attend a Mr. Rogers, an artist, who was staying at Hinxman’s farm, off the Uxley Road. On the evening of the tragedy Mr. Rogers went out on Bess, a mare belonging to the farm, and, not having returned by ten, some anxiety was felt concerning him, the mare possessing a very bad reputation. At about a quarter-past ten the animal returned, riderless, and Rogers was brought home later, in an insensible condition, by two farm hands, having been found beside the road some distance from the farm.

For some time Mr. Rogers lay in a critical condition, suffering from concussion. Finally, a change for the better set in, but the patient was found to have lost his memory.

“Last Saturday,” added the doctor, “a specialist whom I had invited to come down from London performed a successful operation.”

“Ah,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “so we can see him?”

“Certainly. He is quite convalescent. His memory returned to him completely last night.”

In a state of uncertainty which can well be imagined, we arrived at, and entered, Hinxman’s farm. Seated in the shade of the veranda, smoking his pipe, was a bronzed young man who wore a bandage about his head. He was chatting to the farmer when we arrived.

Moris Klaw walked up the steps beside Doctor Madden.

“Good day, Mr. Farmer,” he said, amiably. A rosy-cheeked girl face was thrust from an open window. “Good day, Miss Farmer!” He removed the brown bowler. He turned to the bronzed young man. “Good day, _Sir Roland Crespie!_”