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could think of—especially as he actually didn't wait to be asked for his name, but
blurted it out when it wasn't really wanted. And it was conjoined with another rather
curious mistake, or what would have been a mistake if the thief were Laker. Why
should he conspicuously display his wallet—such a distinctive article—for the clerk to
see and note? Why rather had he not got rid of it before showing himself? Suppose it
should be somebody personating Laker? In any case I determined not to be
prejudiced by what I had heard of Laker's betting. A man may bet without being a
thief.
"But, again, supposing it were Laker? Might he not have given his name, and
displayed his wallet, and so on, while buying a ticket for France, in order to draw
pursuit after himself in that direction while he made off in another, in another name,
and disguised? Each supposition was plausible. And, in either case, it might happen
that whoever was laying this trail would probably lay it a little farther. Charing Cross
was the next point, and there I went. I already had it from Plummer that Laker had
not been recognised there. Perhaps the trail had been laid in some other manner.
Something left behind with Laker's name on it, perhaps? I at once thought of the
umbrella with his monogram, and, making a long shot, asked for it at the lost
property office, as you know. The guess was lucky. In the umbrella, as you know, I
found that scrap of paper. That, I judged, had fallen in from the hand of the man
carrying the umbrella. He had torn the paper in half in order to fling it away, and one
piece had fallen into the loosely flapping umbrella. It is a thing that will often happen
with an omnibus ticket, as you may have noticed. Also, it was proved that the
umbrella was unrolled when found, and rolled immediately after. So here was a piece
of paper dropped by the person who had brought the umbrella to Charing Cross and
left it. I got the whole advertisement, as you remember, and I studied it. 'Yob' is
back-slang for 'boy,' and it is often used in nicknames to denote a young smooth-
faced thief. Gunter, the man I suspect, as a matter of fact, is known as the 'Hoxton
Yob.' The message, then, was addressed to some one known by such a nickname.
Next, 'H.R. shop roast.' Now, in thieves' slang, to 'roast' a thing or a person is to
watch it or him. They call any place a shop—notably, a thieves' den. So that this
meant that some resort—perhaps the 'Hoxton Row shop'—was watched. 'You 1st then
to-night' would be clearer, perhaps, when the rest was understood. I thought a little
over the rest, and it struck me that it must be a direction to some other house, since
one was warned of as being watched. Besides, there was the number, 197, and 'red
bl.,' which would be extremely likely to mean 'red blinds,' by way of clearly
distinguishing the house. And then the plan of the thing was plain. You have noticed,
probably, that the map of London which accompanies the Post Office Directory is
divided, for convenience of reference, into numbered squares?"
"Yes. The squares are denoted by letters along the top margin and figures down the
side. So that if you consult the directory, and find a place marked as being in D 5, for
instance, you find vertical divisions D, and run your finger down it till it intersects
horizontal division 5, and there you are."
"Precisely. I got my Post Office Directory, and looked for 'O 2.' It was in North
London, and took in parts of Abney Park Cemetery and Clissold Park; '2nd top' was
the next sign. Very well, I counted the second street intersecting the top of the
square—counting, in the usual way, from the left. That was Lordship Road. Then, '3rd
L.' From the point where Lordship Road crossed the top of the square, I ran my finger
down the road till it came to '3rd L,' or, in other words, the third turning on the left—
Hackworth Road. So there we were, unless my guesses were altogether wrong.
'Straight mon' probably meant 'straight moniker'—that is to say, the proper name, a
thief's real name, in contradistinction to that he may assume. I turned over the
directory till I found Hackworth Road, and found that No. 197 was inhabited by a Mr.
Merston. From the whole thing I judged this. There was to have been a meeting at
the 'H.R. shop,' but that was found, at the last moment, to be watched by the police
for some purpose, so that another appointment was made for this house in the
suburbs. 'You 1st. Then to-night'—the person addressed was to come first, and the
others in the evening. They were to ask for the householder's 'straight moniker'—Mr.
Merston. And they were to come one at a time.
"Now, then, what was this? What theory would fit it? Suppose this were a robbery,
directed from afar by the advertiser. Suppose, on the day before the robbery, it was
found that the place fixed for division of spoils were watched. Suppose that the
principal thereupon advertised (as had already been agreed in case of emergency) in
these terms. The principal in the actual robbery—the 'Yob' addressed—was to go first
with the booty. The others were to come after, one at a time. Anyway, the thing was
good enough to follow a little further, and I determined to try No. 197, Hackworth
Road. I have told you what I found there, and how it opened my eyes. I went, of
course, merely on chance, to see what I might chance to see. But luck favoured, and
I happened on that coat—brought back rolled up, on the evening after the robbery,
doubtless by the thief who had used it, and flung carelessly into the handiest
cupboard. That was this gang's mistake."
"Well, I congratulate you," I said. "I hope they'll catch the rascals."
"I rather think they will, now they know where to look. They can scarcely miss
Merston, anyway. There has been very little to go upon in this case, but I stuck to the
thread, however slight, and it brought me through. The rest of the case, of course, is
Plummer's. It was a peculiarity of my commission that I could equally well fulfil it by
catching the man with all the plunder, or by proving him innocent. Having done the
latter, my work was at an end, but I left it where Plummer will be able to finish the
job handsomely."
Plummer did. Sam Gunter, Merston, and one accomplice were taken—the first and
last were well known to the police—and were identified by Laker. Merston, as Hewitt
had suspected, had kept the lion's share for himself, so that altogether, with what was
recovered from him and the other two, nearly £11,000 was saved for Messrs. Liddle,
Neal & Liddle. Merston, when taken, was in the act of packing up to take a holiday
abroad, and there cash his notes, which were found, neatly packed in separate
thousands, in his portmanteau. As Hewitt had predicted, his gas bill was considerably
less next quarter, for less than half-way through it he began a term in gaol.
As for Laker, he was reinstated, of course, with an increase of salary by way of
compensation for his broken head. He had passed a terrible twenty-six hours in the
cellar, unfed and unheard. Several times he had become insensible, and again and
again he had thrown himself madly against the door, shouting and tearing at it, till he
fell back exhausted, with broken nails and bleeding fingers. For some hours before
the arrival of his rescuers he had been sitting in a sort of stupor, from which he was
suddenly aroused by the sound of voices and footsteps. He was in bed for a week,
and required a rest of a month in addition before he could resume his duties. Then he
was quietly lectured by Mr. Neal as to betting, and, I believe, dropped that practice in
consequence. I am told that he is "at the counter" now—a considerable promotion.
 THE CASE OF THE LOST FOREIGNER.
I have already said in more than one place that Hewitt's personal relations with the
members of the London police force were of a cordial character. In the course of his
work it has frequently been Hewitt's hap to learn of matters on which the police were
glad of information, and that information was always passed on at once; and so long
as no infringement of regulations or damage to public service were involved, Hewitt
could always rely on a return in kind.
It was with a message of a useful sort that Hewitt one day dropped into Vine Street
police-station and asked for a particular inspector, who was not in. Hewitt sat and
wrote a note, and by way of making conversation said to the inspector on duty,
"Anything very startling this way to-day?"
"Nothing very startling, perhaps, as yet," the inspector replied. "But one of our chaps
picked up rather an odd customer a little while ago. Lunatic of some sort, I should
think—in fact, I've sent for the doctor to see him. He's a foreigner—a Frenchman, I
believe. He seemed horribly weak and faint; but the oddest thing occurred when one
of the men, thinking he might be hungry, brought in some bread. He went into fits of
terror at the sight of it, and wouldn't be pacified till they took it away again."
"That was strange."
"Odd, wasn't it? And he was hungry too. They brought him some more a little while
after, and he didn't funk it a bit,—pitched into it, in fact, like anything, and ate it all
with some cold beef. It's the way with some lunatics—never the same five minutes
together. He keeps crying like a baby, and saying things we can't understand. As it
happens, there's nobody in just now who speaks French."
"I speak French," Hewitt replied. "Shall I try him?"
"Certainly, if you will. He's in the men's room below. They've been making him as
comfortable as possible by the fire until the doctor comes. He's a long time. I expect
he's got a case on."
Hewitt found his way to the large mess-room, where three or four policemen in their
shirt-sleeves were curiously regarding a young man of very disordered appearance
who sat on a chair by the fire. He was pale, and exhibited marks of bruises on his
face, while over one eye was a scarcely healed cut. His figure was small and slight,
his coat was torn, and he sat with a certain indefinite air of shivering suffering. He
started and looked round apprehensively as Hewitt entered. Hewitt bowed smilingly,
wished him good-day, speaking in French, and asked him if he spoke the language.
The man looked up with a dull expression, and after an effort or two, as of one who
stutters, burst out with, "Je le nie!"
"That's strange," Hewitt observed to the men. "I ask him if he speaks French, and he
says he denies it—speaking in French."
"He's been saying that very often, sir," one of the men answered, "as well as other
things we can't make anything of."
Hewitt placed his hand kindly on the man's shoulder and asked his name. The reply
was for a little while an inarticulate gurgle, presently merging into a meaningless
medley of words and syllables—"Qu'est ce qu'—il n'a—Leystar Squarr—sacré nom—
not spik it—quel chemin—sank you ver' mosh—je le nie! je le nie!" He paused, stared,
and then, as though realizing his helplessness, he burst into tears.
"He's been a-cryin' two or three times," said the man who had spoken before. "He
was a-cryin' when we found him."
Several more attempts Hewitt made to communicate with the man, but though he
seemed to comprehend what was meant, he replied with nothing but meaningless
gibber, and finally gave up the attempt, and, leaning against the side of the fireplace,
buried his head in the bend of his arm.
Then the doctor arrived and made his examination. While it was in progress Hewitt
took aside the policeman who had been speaking before and questioned him further.
He had himself found the Frenchman in a dull back street by Golden Square, where
the man was standing helpless and trembling, apparently quite bewildered and very
weak. He had brought him in, without having been able to learn anything about him.
One or two shopkeepers in the street where he was found were asked, but knew
nothing of him—indeed, had never seen him before.
"But the curiousest thing," the policeman proceeded, "was in this 'ere room, when I
brought him a loaf to give him a bit of a snack, seein' he looked so weak an' 'ungry.
You'd 'a thought we was a-goin' to poison 'im. He fair screamed at the very sight o'
the bread, an' he scrouged hisself up in that corner an' put his hands in front of his
face. I couldn't make out what was up at first—didn't tumble to it's bein' the bread he
was frightened of, seein' as he looked like a man as 'ud be frightened at anything else
afore that. But the nearer I came with it the more he yelled, so I took it away an' left
it outside, an' then he calmed down. An' s'elp me, when I cut some bits off that there
very loaf an' brought 'em in, with a bit o' beef, he just went for 'em like one o'clock.
He wasn't frightened o' no bread then, you bet. Rum thing, how the fancies takes 'em
when they're a bit touched, ain't it? All one way one minute, all the other the next."
"Yes, it is. By the way, have you another uncut loaf in the place?"
"Yes, sir. Half a dozen if you like."
"One will be enough. I am going over to speak to the doctor. Wait awhile until he
seems very quiet and fairly comfortable; then bring a loaf in quietly and put it on the
table, not far from his elbow. Don't attract his attention to what you are doing."
The doctor stood looking thoughtfully down on the Frenchman, who, for his part,
stared gloomily, but tranquilly, at the fireplace. Hewitt stepped quietly over to the
doctor and, without disturbing the man by the fire, said interrogatively, "Aphasia?"
The doctor tightened his lips, frowned, and nodded significantly. "Motor," he
murmured, just loudly enough for Hewitt to hear; "and there's a general nervous
break-down as well, I should say. By the way, perhaps there's no agraphia. Have you
tried him with pen and paper?"
Pen and paper were brought and set before the man. He was told, slowly and
distinctly, that he was among friends, whose only object was to restore him to his
proper health. Would he write his name and address, and any other information he
might care to give about himself, on the paper before him?
The Frenchman took the pen and stared at the paper; then slowly, and with much
hesitation, he traced these marks:—

The man paused after the last of these futile characters, and his pen stabbed into the
paper with a blot, as he dazedly regarded his work. Then with a groan he dropped it,
and his face sank again into the bend of his arm.
The doctor took the paper and handed it to Hewitt. "Complete agraphia, you see," he
said. "He can't write a word. He begins to write 'Monsieur' from sheer habit in
beginning letters thus; but the word tails off into a scrawl. Then his attempts become
mere scribble, with just a trace of some familiar word here and there—but quite
meaningless all."
Although he had never before chanced to come across a case of aphasia (happily a
rare disease), Hewitt was acquainted with its general nature. He knew that it might
arise either from some physical injury to the brain, or from a break-down consequent
on some terrible nervous strain. He knew that in the case of motor aphasia the
sufferer, though fully conscious of all that goes on about him, and though quite
understanding what is said to him is entirely powerless to put his own thoughts into
spoken words—has lost, in fact, the connection between words and their spoken
symbols. Also that in most bad cases agraphia—the loss of ability to write words with
any reference to their meaning—is commonly an accompaniment.
"You will have him taken to the infirmary, I suppose?" Hewitt asked.
"Yes," the doctor replied. "I shall go and see about it at once."
The man looked up again as they spoke. The policeman had, in accordance with
Hewitt's request, placed a loaf of bread on the table near him, and now as he looked
up he caught sight of it. He started visibly and paled, but gave no such signs of
abject terror as the policeman had previously observed. He appeared nervous and
uneasy, however, and presently reached stealthily toward the loaf. Hewitt continued
to talk to the doctor, while closely watching the Frenchman's behaviour from the
corner of his eye.
The loaf was what is called a "plain cottage," of solid and regular shape. The man
reached it and immediately turned it bottom up on the table. Then he sank back in
his chair with a more contented expression, though his gaze was still directed toward
the loaf. The policeman grinned silently at this curious manœuvre.
The doctor left, and Hewitt accompanied him to the door of the room. "He will not be
moved just yet, I take it?" Hewitt asked as they parted.
"It may take an hour or two," the doctor replied. "Are you anxious to keep him here?"
"Not for long; but I think there's a curious inside to the case, and I may perhaps learn
something of it by a little watching. But I can't spare very long."
At a sign from Hewitt the loaf was removed. Then Hewitt pulled the small table closer
to the Frenchman and pushed the pen and sheets of paper toward him. The
manœuvre had its result. The man looked up and down the room vacantly once or
twice and then began to turn the papers over. From that he went to dipping the pen
in the inkpot, and presently he was scribbling at random on the loose sheets. Hewitt
affected to leave him entirely alone, and seemed to be absorbed in a contemplation
of a photograph of a police-division brass band that hung on the wall, but he saw
every scratch the man made.
At first there was nothing but meaningless scrawls and attempted words. Then rough
sketches appeared, of a man's head, a chair or what not. On the mantelpiece stood a
small clock—apparently a sort of humble presentation piece, the body of the clock
being set in a horse-shoe frame, with crossed whips behind it. After a time the
Frenchman's eyes fell on this, and he began a crude sketch of it. That he
relinquished, and went on with other random sketches and scribblings on the same
piece of paper, sketching and scribbling over the sketches in a half-mechanical sort of
way, as of one who trifles with a pen during a brown study. Beginning at the top left-
hand corner of the paper, he travelled all round it till he arrived at the left-hand
bottom corner. Then dashing his pen hastily across his last sketch he dropped it, and
with a great shudder turned away again and hid his face by the fireplace.
Hewitt turned at once and seized the papers on the table. He stuffed them all into his
coat-pocket, with the exception of the last which the man had been engaged on, and
this, a facsimile of which is subjoined, he studied earnestly for several minutes.
Hewitt wished the men good-day, and made his way to the inspector.
"Well," the inspector said, "not much to be got out of him, is there? The doctor will
be sending for him presently."
"I fancy," said Hewitt, "that this may turn out a very important case. Possibly—
quite possibly—I may not have guessed correctly, and so I won't tell you anything
of it till I know a little more. But what I want now is a messenger. Can I send
somebody at once in a cab to my friend Brett at his chambers?"
"Certainly. I'll find somebody. Want to write a note?"
Hewitt wrote and despatched a note, which reached me in less than ten minutes.
Then he asked the inspector, "Have you searched the Frenchman?"
"Oh, yes. We went all over him, when we found he couldn't explain himself, to
see if we could trace his friends or his address. He didn't seem to mind. But there
wasn't a single thing in his pocket—not a single thing, barring a rag of a pocket-
handkerchief with no marking on it."
"You noticed that somebody had stolen his watch, I suppose?"
"Well, he hadn't got one."
"But he had one of those little vertical button-holes in his waistcoat, used to
fasten a watchguard to, and it was much worn and frayed, so that he must be in
the habit of carrying a watch; and it is gone."
"Yes, and everything else too, eh? Looks like robbery. He's had a knock or two in
the face—notice that?"
"I saw the bruises and the cut, of course; and his collar has been broken away,
with the back button; somebody has taken him by the collar or throat. Was he
wearing a hat when he was found?"
"No."
"That would imply that he had only just left a house. What street was he found
in?"
"Henry Street—a little off Golden Square. Low street, you know."
"Did the constable notice a door open near by?"
The inspector shook his head. "Half the doors in the street are open," he said,
"pretty nearly all day."
"Ah, then there's nothing in that. I don't think he lives there, by the bye. I fancy
he comes from more in the Seven Dials or Drury Lane direction. Did you notice
anything about the man that gave you a clue to his occupation—or at any rate to
his habits?"
"Can't say I did."
"Well, just take a look at the back of his coat before he goes away—just over the
loins. Good-day."
As I have said, Hewitt's messenger was quick. I happened to be in—having lately
returned from a latish lunch—when he arrived with this note:—
"My dear B.,—I meant to have lunched with you to-day, but have
been kept. I expect you are idle this afternoon, and I have a case
that will interest you—perhaps be useful to you from a journalistic
point of view. If you care to see anything of it, cab away at once to
Fitzroy Square, south side, where I'll meet you. I will wait no later
than 3.30. Yours, M. H."
I had scarce a quarter of an hour, so I seized my hat and left my chambers at
once. As it happened, my cab and Hewitt's burst into Fitzroy Square from
opposite sides almost at the same moment, so that we lost no time.
"Come," said Hewitt, taking my arm and marching me off, "we are going to look
for some stabling. Try to feel as though you'd just set up a brougham and had
come out to look for a place to put it in. I fear we may have to delude some
person with that belief presently."
"Why—what do you want stables for? And why make me your excuse?"
"As to what I want the stables for—really I'm not altogether sure myself. As to
making you an excuse—well, even the humblest excuse is better than none. But
come, here are some stables. Not good enough, though, even if any of them
were empty. Come on."
We had stopped for an instant at the entrance to a small alley of rather dirty
stables, and Hewitt, paying apparently but small attention to the stables
themselves, had looked sharply about him with his gaze in the air.
"I know this part of London pretty well," Hewitt observed, "and I can only
remember one other range of stabling near by; we must try that. As a matter of
fact, I'm coming here on little more than conjecture, though I shall be surprised if
there isn't something in it. Do you know anything of aphasia?"
"I have heard of it, of course, though I can't say I remember ever knowing a
case."
"I've seen one to-day—very curious case. The man's a Frenchman, discovered
helpless in the street by a policeman. The only thing he can say that has any
meaning in it at all is 'je le nie,' and that he says mechanically, without in the
least knowing what he is saying. And he can't write. But he got sketching and
scrawling various things on some paper, and his scrawls—together with another
thing or two—have given me an idea. We're following it up now. When we are
less busy, and in a quiet place, I'll show you the sketches and explain things
generally; there's no time now, and I may want your help for a bit, in which case
ignorance may prevent you spoiling things, you clumsy ruffian. Hullo! here we
are, I think!"
We had stopped at the end of another stable-yard, rather dirtier than the first.
The stables were sound but inelegant sheds, and one or two appeared to be
devoted to other purposes, having low chimneys, on one of which an old basket
was rakishly set by way of cowl. Beside the entrance a worn-out old board was
nailed, with the legend, "Stabling to Let," in letters formerly white on a ground
formerly black.
"Come," said Hewitt, "we'll explore."
We picked our way over the greasy cobble-stones and looked about us. On the
left was the wall enclosing certain back-yards, and on the right the stables. Two
doors in the middle of these were open, and a butcher's young man, who with
his shiny bullet head would have been known for a butcher's young man
anywhere, was wiping over the new-washed wheel of a smart butcher's cart.
"Good-day," Hewitt said pleasantly to the young man. "I notice there's some
stabling to let here. Now, where should I inquire about it?"
"Jones, Whitfield Street," the young man answered, giving the wheel a final spin.
"But there's only one little place to let now, I think, and it ain't very grand."
"Oh, which is that?"
"Next but one to the street there. A chap 'ad it for wood-choppin', but 'e chucked
it. There ain't room for more'n a donkey an' a barrow."
"Ah, that's a pity. We're not particular, but want something big enough, and we
don't mind paying a fair price. Perhaps we might make an arrangement with
somebody here who has a stable?"
The young man shook his head.
"I shouldn't think so," he said doubtfully; "they're mostly shop-people as wants
all the room theirselves. My guv'nor couldn't do nothink, I know. These 'ere two
stables ain't scarcely enough for all 'e wants as it is. Then there's Barkett the
greengrocer 'ere next door. That ain't no good. Then, next to that, there's the
little place as is to let, and at the end there's Griffith's at the butter-shop."
"And those the other way?"
"Well, this 'ere first one's Curtis's, Euston Road—that's a butter-shop, too, an' 'e
'as the next after that. The last one, up at the end—I dunno quite whose that is.
It ain't been long took, but I b'lieve it's some foreign baker's. I ain't ever see
anythink come out of it, though; but there's a 'orse there, I know—I seen the
feed took in."
Hewitt turned thoughtfully away.
"Thanks," he said. "I suppose we can't manage it, then. Good-day."
We walked to the street as the butcher's young man wheeled in his cart and
flung away his pail of water.
"Will you just hang about here, Brett," he asked, "while I hurry round to the
nearest iron-monger's? I shan't be gone long. We're going to work a little
burglary. Take note if anybody comes to that stable at the farther end."
He hurried away and I waited. In a few moments the butcher's young man shut
his doors and went whistling down the street, and in a few moments more Hewitt
appeared.
"Come," he said, "there's nobody about now; we'll lose no time. I've bought a
pair of pliers and a few nails."
We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Hewitt stooped and
examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it carefully against the
brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still held by the pliers, and working the
padlock gently in his left hand, in an astonishingly few seconds he had released
the hasp and taken off the padlock. "I'm not altogether a bad burglar," he
remarked. "Not so bad, really."
The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be
opened. Opening it, Hewitt immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle which
stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.
"We'll do this by candle-light," he said, as he struck a match. "If the door were
left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears open in case anybody
comes down the yard."
The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was
occupied by a rather shabby tradesman's cart, the shafts of which rested on the
ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling and trampling of
an impatient horse.
We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in worn
letters the words, "Schuyler, Baker." The address, which had been below, was
painted out.
Hewitt took out the pins and let down the tail board. Within the cart was a new
bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I felt it, pressed it
from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring mattress—perhaps rather
unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a curious thing to keep in a baker's cart.
Hewitt, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm into the
farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long French loaf, and
then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves of the sort known as the
"plain cottage "—two sets of four each, each set baked together in a row. "Feel
this bread," said Hewitt, and I felt it. It was stale—almost as hard as wood.
Hewitt produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be
superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage loaves.
Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly but slowly tore
the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb from within till there
was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.
"No," he said, rather to himself than to me, "there's nothing in that." He lifted
one of the very long French loaves and measured it against the interior of the
cart. It had before been propped diagonally, and now it was noticeable that it
was just a shade longer than the inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact,
it held firmly. Hewitt produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the
centre; there was nothing but bread in that. The horse in the stall fidgeted more
than ever.
"That horse hasn't been fed lately, I fancy," Hewitt said. "We'll give the poor chap
a bit of this hay in the corner."
"But," I said, "what about this bread? What did you expect to find in it? I can't
see what you're driving at."
"I'll tell you," Hewitt replied, "I'm driving after something I expect to find, and
close at hand here, too. How are your nerves to-day—pretty steady? The thing
may try them."
Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside,
approaching. Hewitt lifted his finger instantly for silence and whispered hurriedly,
"There's only one. If he comes here, we grab him."
The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause, and
then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly surprised. At that
moment the door was slightly shifted ajar and an eye peeped in.
"Catch him!" said Hewitt aloud, as we sprang to the door. "He mustn't get away!"
I had been nearer the doorway, and was first through it. The stranger ran down
the yard at his best, but my legs were the longer, and half-way to the street I
caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. Like lightning he whipped out
a knife, and I flung in my left instantly on the chance of flooring him. It barely
checked him, however, and the knife swung short of my chest by no more than
two inches; but Hewitt had him by the wrist and tripped him forward on his face.
He struggled like a wild beast, and Hewitt had to stand on his forearm and force
up his wrist till the bones were near breaking before he dropped his knife. But
throughout the struggle the man never shouted, called for help, nor, indeed,
made the slightest sound, and we on our part were equally silent. It was quickly
over, of course, for he was on his face, and we were two. We dragged our
prisoner into the stable and closed the door behind us. So far as we had seen,
nobody had witnessed the capture from the street, though, of course, we had
been too busy to be certain.
"There's a set of harness hanging over at the back," said Hewitt; "I think we'll tie
him up with the traces and reins—nothing like leather. We don't need a gag; I
know he won't shout."
While I got the straps Hewitt held the prisoner by a peculiar neck-and-wrist grip
that forbade him to move except at the peril of a snapped arm. He had probably
never been a person of pleasant aspect, being short, strongly and squatly built,
large and ugly of feature, and wild and dirty of hair and beard. And now, his face
flushed with struggling and smeared with mud from the stable-yard, his nose
bleeding and his forehead exhibiting a growing bump, he looked particularly
repellent. We strapped his elbows together behind, and as he sullenly ignored a
demand for the contents of his pockets Hewitt unceremoniously turned them out.
Helpless as he was, the man struggled to prevent this, though, of course,
ineffectually. There were papers, tobacco, a bunch of keys, and various odds and
ends. Hewitt was glancing hastily at the papers when, suddenly dropping them,
he caught the prisoner by the shoulder and pulled him away from a partly-
consumed hay-truss which stood in a corner, and toward which he had quietly
sidled.
"Keep him still," said Hewitt; "we haven't examined this place yet." And he
commenced to pull away the hay from the corner.
Presently a large piece of sackcloth was revealed, and this being lifted left visible
below it another batch of loaves of the same sort as we had seen in the cart.
There were a dozen of them in one square batch, and the only thing about them
that differed them from those in the cart was their position, for the batch lay
bottom side up.
"That's enough, I think," Hewitt said. "Don't touch them, for Heaven's sake!" He
picked up the papers he had dropped. "That has saved us a little search," he
continued. "See here, Brett; I was in the act of telling you my suspicions when
this little affair interrupted me. If you care to look at one or two of these letters
you'll see what I should have told you. It's Anarchism and bombs, of course. I'm
about as certain as I can be that there's a reversible dynamite bomb inside each
of those innocent loaves, though I assure you I don't mean meddling with them
now. But see here. Will you go and bring in a four-wheeler? Bring it right down
the yard. There's more to do, and we mustn't attract attention."
I hurried away and found the cab. The meaning of the loaves, the cart, and the
spring-mattress was now plain. There was an Anarchist plot to carry out a
number of explosions probably simultaneously, in different parts of the city. I
had, of course, heard much of the terrible "reversing" bombs—those bombs
which, containing a tube of acid plugged by wadding, required no fuse, and only
needed to be inverted to be set going to explode in a few minutes. The loaves
containing these bombs would form an effectual "blind," and they were to be
distributed, probably in broad daylight, in the most natural manner possible, in a
baker's cart. A man would be waiting near the scene of each contemplated
explosion. He would be given a loaf taken from the inverted batch. He would take
it—perhaps wrapped in paper, but still inverted, and apparently the most innocent
object possible—to the spot selected, deposit it, right side up—which would
reverse the inner tube and set up the action—in some quiet corner, behind a door
or what not, and make his own escape, while the explosion tore down walls and
—if the experiment were lucky—scattered the flesh and bones of unsuspecting
people.
The infernal loaves were made and kept reversed, to begin with, in order to
stand more firmly, and—if observed—more naturally, when turned over to
explode. Even if a child picked up the loaf and carried it off, that child at least
would be blown to atoms, which at any rate would have been something for the
conspirators to congratulate themselves upon. The spring-mattress, of course,
was to ease the jolting to the bombs, and obviate any random jerking loose of
the acid, which might have had the deplorable result of sacrificing the valuable
life of the conspirator who drove the cart. The other loaves, too, with no
explosive contents, had their use. The two long ones, which fitted across the
inside of the cart, would be jammed across so as to hold the bombs in the
centre, and the others would be used to pack the batch on the other sides and
prevent any dangerous slipping about. The thing seemed pretty plain, except that
as yet I had no idea of how Hewitt learned anything of the business.
I brought the four-wheeler up to the door of the stable and we thrust the man
into it, and Hewitt locked the stable door with its proper key. Then we drove off
to Tottenham Court Road police-station, and, by Hewitt's order, straight into the
yard.
In less than ten minutes from our departure from the stable our prisoner was
finally secured, and Hewitt was deep in consultation with police officials.
Messengers were sent and telegrams despatched, and presently Hewitt came to
me with information.
"The name of the helpless Frenchman the police found this morning," he said,
"appears to be Gérard—at least I am almost certain of it. Among the papers
found on the prisoner—whose full name doesn't appear, but who seems to be
spoken of as Luigi (he is Italian)—among the papers, I say, is a sort of notice
convening a meeting for this evening to decide as to the 'final punishment' to be
awarded the 'traitor Gérard, now in charge of comrade Pingard.'
"The place of meeting is not mentioned, but it seems more than probable that it
will be at the Bakunin Club, not five minutes' walk from this place. The police
have all these places under quiet observation, of course, and that is the club at
which apparently important Anarchist meetings have been held lately. It is the
only club that has never been raided as yet, and, it would seem, the only one
they would feel at all safe in using for anything important.
"Moreover, Luigi just now simply declined to open his mouth when asked where
the meeting was to be, and said nothing when the names of several other places
were suggested, but suddenly found his tongue at the mention of the Bakunin
Club, and denied vehemently that the meeting was to be there—it was the only
thing he uttered. So that it seems pretty safe to assume that it is to be there.
Now, of course, the matter's very serious. Men have been despatched to take
charge of the stable very quietly, and the club is to be taken possession of at
once—also very quietly. It must be done without a moment's delay, and as there
is a chance that the only detective officers within reach at the moment may be
known by sight, I have undertaken to get in first. Perhaps you'll come? We may
have to take the door with a rush."
Of course I meant to miss nothing if I could help it, and said so.
"Very well," replied Hewitt, "we'll get ourselves up a bit." He began taking off his
collar and tie. "It is getting dusk," he proceeded, "and we shan't want old clothes
to make ourselves look sufficiently shabby. We're both wearing bowler hats,
which is lucky. Make a dent in yours—if you can do so without permanently
damaging it."
We got rid of our collars and made chokers of our ties. We turned our coat-
collars up at one side only, and then, with dented hats worn raffishly, and our
hands in our pockets, we looked disreputable enough for all practical purposes in
twilight. A cordon of plain-clothes police had already been forming round the
club, we were told, and so we sallied forth. We turned into Windmill Street,
crossed Whitfield Street, and in a turning or two we came to the Bakunin Club. I
could see no sign of anything like a ring of policemen, and said so. Hewitt
chuckled. "Of course not," he said; "they don't go about a job of this sort with
drums beating and flags flying. But they are all there, and some are watching us.
There is the house. I'll negotiate."
The house was one of the very shabby passé sort that abound in that quarter.
The very narrow area was railed over, and almost choked with rubbish. Visible
above it were three floors, the lowest indicated by the door and one window, and
the other two by two windows each—mean and dirty all. A faint light appeared in
the top floor, and another from somewhere behind the refuse-heaped area.
Everywhere else was in darkness. Hewitt looked intently into the area, but it was
impossible to discern anything behind the sole grimy patch of window that was
visible. Then we stepped lightly up the three or four steps to the door and rang
the bell.
We could hear slippered feet mounting a stair and approaching. A latch was
shifted, a door opened six inches, an indistinct face appeared, and a female voice
asked, "Qui est là?"
"Deux camarades," Hewitt grunted testily. "Ouvrez vite."
I had noticed that the door was kept from opening further by a short chain. This
chain the woman unhooked from the door, but still kept the latter merely ajar, as
though intending to assure herself still further. But Hewitt immediately pushed
the door back, planted his foot against it, and entered, asking carelessly as he
did so, "Où se trouve Luigi?"
I followed on his heels, and in the dark could just distinguish that Hewitt pushed
the woman instantly against the wall and clapped his hand to her mouth. At the
same moment a file of quiet men were suddenly visible ascending the steps at
my heels. They were the police.
The door was closed behind us almost noiselessly, and a match was struck. Two
men stood at the bottom of the stairs, and the others searched the house. Only
two men were found—both in a top room. They were secured and brought down.
The woman was now ungagged, and she used her tongue at a great rate. One of
the men was a small, meek-looking slip of a fellow, and he appeared to be the
woman's husband. "Eh, messieurs le police," she exclaimed vehemently, "it ees
not of 'im, mon pauvre Pierre, zat you sall rrun in. 'Im and me—we are not of the
clob—we work only—we housekeep."
Hewitt whispered to an officer, and the two men were taken below. Then Hewitt
spoke to the woman, whose protests had not ceased. "You say you are not of the
club," he said, "but what is there to prove that? If you are but housekeepers, as
you say, you have nothing to fear. But you can only prove it by giving the police
information. For instance, now, about Gérard. What have they done with him?"
"Jean Pingard—'im you 'ave take downstairs—'e 'ave lose 'im. Jean Pingard get
last night all a-boosa—all dronk like zis"—she rolled her head and shoulders to
express intoxication—"and he sleep too much to-day, when Émile go out, and
Gérard, he go too, and nobody know. I will tell you anysing. We are not of the
clob—we housekeep, me and Pierre."
"But what did they do to Gérard before he went away?"
The woman was ready and anxious to tell anything. Gérard had been selected to
do something—what it was exactly she did not know, but there was a horse and
cart, and he was to drive it. Where the horse and cart was also she did not know,
but Gérard had driven a cart before in his work for a baker, and he was to drive
one in connection with some scheme among the members of the club. But le
pauvre Gérard at the last minute disliked to drive the cart; he had fear. He did
not say he had fear, but he prepared a letter—a letter that was not signed. The
letter was to be sent to the police, and it told them the whereabouts of the horse
and cart, so that the police might seize these things, and then there would be
nothing for Gérard, who had fear, to do in the way of driving. No, he did not
betray the names of the comrades, but he told the place of the horse and the
cart.
Nevertheless, the letter was never sent. There was suspicion, and the letter was
found in a pocket and read. Then there was a meeting, and Gérard was
confronted with his letter. He could say nothing but "Je le nie!"—found no
explanation but that. There was much noise, and she had observed from a
staircase, from which one might see through a ventilating hole, Gérard had much
fear—very much fear. His face was white, and it moved; he prayed for mercy, and
they talked of killing him. It was discussed how he should be killed, and the poor
Gérard was more terrified. He was made to take off his collar, and a razor was
drawn across his throat, though without cutting him, till he fainted.
Then water was flung over him, and he was struck in the face till he revived. He
again repeated, "Je le nie! je le nie!" and nothing more. Then one struck him
with a bottle, and another with a stick; the point of a knife was put against his
throat and held there, but this time he did not faint, but cried softly, as a man
who is drunk, "Je le nie! je le nie!" So they tied a handkerchief about his neck,
and twisted it till his face grew purple and black, and his eyes were round and
terrible, and then they struck his face, and he fainted again. But they took away
the handkerchief, having fear that they could not easily get rid of the body if he
were killed, for there was no preparation. So they decided to meet again and
discuss when there would be preparation. Wherefore they took him away to the
rooms of Jean Pingard—of Jean and Émile Pingard—in Henry Street, Golden
Square. But Émile Pingard had gone out, and Jean was drunk and slept, and they
lost him. Jean Pingard was he downstairs—the taller of the two; the other was
but le pauvre Pierre, who, with herself, was not of the club. They worked only;
they were the keepers of the house. There was nothing for which they should be
arrested, and she would give the police any information they might ask.
"As I thought, you see," Hewitt said to me, "the man's nerves have broken down
under the terror and the strain, and aphasia is the result. I think I told you that
the only articulate thing he could say was 'Je le nie!' and now we know how
those words were impressed on him till he now pronounces them mechanically,
with no idea of their meaning. Come, we can do no more here now. But wait a
moment."
There were footsteps outside. The light was removed, and a policeman went to
the door and opened it as soon as the bell rang. Three men stepped in one after
another, and the door was immediately shut behind them—they were prisoners.
We left quietly, and although we, of course, expected it, it was not till the next
morning that we learned absolutely that the largest arrest of Anarchists ever
made in this country was made at the Bakunin Club that night. Each man as he
came was admitted—and collared.

We made our way to Luzatti's, and it was over our dinner that Hewitt put me in
full possession of the earlier facts of this case, which I have set down as
impersonal narrative in their proper place at the beginning.
"But," I said, "what of that aimless scribble you spoke of that Gérard made in the
police station? Can I see it?"
Hewitt turned to where his coat hung behind him and took a handful of papers
from his pocket.
"Most of these," he said, "mean nothing at all. That is what he wrote at first,"
and he handed me the first of the two papers which were presented in facsimile
in the earlier part of this narrative.
"You see," he said, "he has begun mechanically from long use to write
'monsieur'—the usual beginning of a letter. But he scarcely makes three letters
before tailing off into sheer scribble. He tries again and again, and although once
there is something very like 'que,' and once something like a word preceded by a
negative 'n,' the whole thing is meaningless.
"This" (he handed me the other paper which has been printed in facsimile) "does
mean something, though Gérard never intended it. Can you spot the meaning?
Really, I think it's pretty plain—especially now that you know as much as I about
the day's adventures. The thing at the top left-hand corner, I may tell you,
Gérard intended for a sketch of a clock on the mantelpiece in the police-station."
I stared hard at the paper, but could make nothing whatever of it. "I only see the
horse-shoe clock," I said, "and a sort of second, unsuccessful attempt to draw it
again. Then there is a horse-shoe dotted, but scribbled over, and then a sort of
kite or balloon on a string, a Highlander, and—well, I don't understand it, I
confess. Tell me."