THE ADVENTURE OF THE LIMPING MAN
A Solar Pons story
By August Derleth
(From Regarding Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of Solar Pons, Copyright 1945 by August Derleth)
Version 1.0 - January 25, 2002

THE CEASELESS activity in which Solar Pons was engaged during the summer and early autumn of the year 1923 brought him at last to a stage where he was forced to choose either absolute rest or a nervous breakdown. Knowing how much Pons loathed the thought of inactivity, I put off broaching the subject of a holiday for as long as possible, but at last, early in October of that year, I suggested that both of us ran up to the country estate of a good friend, Sir John Mollines, for a brief day, which I secretly planned to lengthen as much as I could. Sir John's estate lay in Northumberland, near the Scottish border, in the midst of a well-populated district, though surrounding estates were quite extensive and the houses therefore rather widely separated.

Pons opposed the suggestion from the start, but sheer persistence on my part, coupled with his knowledge of his own condition, and my assurance that the nearby village of Durward was in easy communication with London, finally overcame his opposition, and he gave in after a week of dubiety and protest.

By the fifteenth of that month we were comfortably established in Sir John's country house, which was far more than merely a house, what with its library and its stores. At my suggestion, Sir John had given the servants a fortnight's leave, excepting only the caretaker, who remained in his lodge at the gate. We had the house to ourselves, therefore, and it devolved upon me to do the work of cook and housekeeper, not in any sense exactly a new experience for me.

But alas! for plans of mice and men! Pons spent all the first day resting, while I lost myself in a monograph concerning the mental aberrations of men and women of genius; beyond that first day, rest, as I understood it, was not part of Pons' routine. Nothing could keep Pons in the house on the second day. Indeed, he was already gone when I awoke that morning, and he did not turn up until some little time after lunch, and then only ran in with a briefly ironic, "I see you're up!" and left again before I had time even to protest.

It was not until after dark when he came in to stay. He  was begrimed and dusty, as if he had walked a long way. He said not a word as he entered, but walked with singular directness over to a sheaf of his papers, and a volume of his file of clippings which he had insisted on bringing along from our lodgings in Praed Street. Armed with these, he came to the table and seated himself opposite me, looking at the dinner waiting for him with remarkable disinterest.

"We have most interesting neighbors to the north, Parker," he said musingly, a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"Indeed! Were you resting there?" I asked, eyeing his clothes in studied disapproval.

He ignored my thrust. "I fancy you've heard of the Melham family?"

"I must admit I am not a walking directory."

"Come, Parker," he challenged impatiently. "Surely you can't have forgotten the strange disappearance of old Sir Peter Melham! Let me see--" he paused and frowned briefly, as if he had any necessity to recall facts which were doubtless at his fingertips--"that was three years ago, I believe."

I sighed and settled back, shaking my head in disapproval which did not stem his enthusiasm.

"He vanished some time in October, if I recall rightly," he went on blithely. "I brought my notes on the matter down with me, since I rather hoped that Sir John's lodge was near the Melham estate."

"Certainly you aren't planning to reopen that old matter?"

"Not unless I am asked to do so."

"Well, there is little danger of that. The case is pretty well closed."

"Say, rather, it has rested. It is as far from being closed as it ever was. No case is definitely closed until it is solved."

During this brief exchange, he had been going through his papers, and he had now come to his notes relating to the disappearance of Sir Peter Melham. I felt all my hope for his holiday fading, for I saw in his keen eyes once again all the excitement of the chase. As if he had read my thoughts, he looked up and fixed me with a sharp glance.

"Perhaps you would rather hear nothing more of the matter, eh?"

He had me; he knew he had. "I would rather you had forgotten all about it--but now that you've interested yourself, go on."

"Very well, then. I have a good summary of the case here. Sir Peter took possession of Melham Old Place, as it is called; in late May, 1920, after selling his London house; he came with his daughter Maureen, his wife having died many years earlier. Melham Old Place has always been the family seat, and it was at that time occupied by Peter's brother Andrew, a paralytic confined to his bed. Sir Peter was engaged in business on the Continent, and Maureen was to remain with her uncle during his absence. His ultimate destination on the Continent was Prague, though the nature of his business was never revealed. He set out on the night of October seventh, 1920, leaving Melham Old Place with two bags and a portfolio. He was known to have purchased a ticket for Dover at the Durward station, and he was seen to enter the midnight express from Edinburgh shortly after ten o'clock. That was the last seen of him. His punched ticket, with his bags and portfolio--all were found in a first-class carriage compartment in Victoria Station, London, just after the boat train for Dover had taken its departure.

"In his deposition, a guard stated he had punched Sir Peter's ticket somewhere out of Reveling, which is well away from Durward. Sir Peter had not been in evidence; he had assumed that Sir Peter was either in another compartment or in the lavatory at the other end of the carriage. The ticket lay on the seat; he had punched it and replaced it; in Victoria Station he had found the ticket just where he had put it after punching it. The indication, therefore, was that Sir Peter vanished in the vicinity of Reveling."

"Yes, I remember it now," I said. "Quite extraordinary."

"Sensational," corrected Pans. "I have some memory of the investigation pursued by Scotland Yard, whose men were sent as far afield as Prague, to discover if possible what was known of Sir Peter there. But nothing was--beyond his two monographs; so that his destination was never revealed, since it was apparently as much of a mystery to his brother and his daughter, as to Scotland Yard. Of course, the usual rumors began to circulate immediately, and ranged all the way from suspicion of murder--for what motive no one ever tried to account--to wilful disappearance."

"Had Sir Peter anything to gain by vanishing?"

"Nothing, apparently, and all to lose. Of course, old family history is always a source of great interest to rumormongers and those who have little to do with their time. But the history of the Melham family offers comparatively little of major interest. The family first came into prominence through the knighting of Sir Mark Melham--born in 1932--in 1867. The sons, Andrew and Peter, were born in that year, and Lady Melham died shortly thereafter. Not long after, Sir Mark removed to London, and there he stayed until he died in 1911.

"Young Peter briefly troubled the family in 1887, when, after an affair with a Miss Rose Hadley, he eloped with her. The young lady was the daughter of a woman who had been recommended to Sir Mark as a housekeeper for Melham old Place. When Peter was next heard from, he turned up with his small daughter, Maureen, saying he had married Rose Hadley, but that she had died shortly after giving birth to the little girl. Sir Mark refused to recognize either his son or his grand-child; he executed a new will in favor of Andrew, cutting Peter off . This was in 1899; Maureen was then three years of age. After this cold reception,  Peter entrusted his daughter to her relatives on her mother's side, and returned to London, where he came to some prominence in 1902 by distinguishing himself in the scientific field with two monographs and a minor invention. He supported his daughter and assured her education.

 "Sir Mark died in 1911; Sir Andrew inherited the estate, and Sir Peter, now knighted for scientific service to the Crown, returned to Northumberland to suggest a partition of the estate, to which Sir Andrew did not agree. This time Sir Peter took his daughter back to London with him. There was a period of coolness between the brothers for some years, but early in 1919, after Sir Andrew sustained his paralytic stroke, their coolness was forgotten, and they kept up a warm correspondence up to the time of Sir Peter's final leaving of London."

Pons looked up from the papers. "Now does that not present a prosaic background for that inexplicable disappearance?"

"Ah, you consider it inexplicable, then?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort. You misinterpret me. It has been inexplicable up to this time; beyond that I will not go. You know my methods; you know my confidence; you ought not to tempt me in this fashion, Parker. It is quite possible that I may be drawn into this matter--even against my will."

"Against your will, indeed!"

"I fear you are becoming too dogmatic, Parker, especially in regard to your diagnoses. Recreation and rest do not necessarily imply mental and physical stagnation."

"There is no good in your stirring up this old mystery, and surely no one will invite your services at this late date."

"You forget there is Miss Maureen Melham, who must certainly be interested in the fate of her father. She is now attractive, I should say, judging by the glimpse of her I got through my glasses this afternoon." He smiled ruminatively. "I daresay it is no surprise to you that it has come to her ears that I am in the neighborhood."

"Impossible!" I cried. "I have maintained the strictest secrecy!"

"Dear me! How reprehensible of you! Now I, on the contrary, immediately noised my coming about. Our lodgekeeper carried the information over to Melham Old Place with commendable dispatch."

"I think it most unwise...."

"I may as well tell you, Parker, I expect Miss Maureen Melham to call on me not later than eight o'clock tonight. And now, I think we had better do justice to the meal you have had waiting here all this while."

There was nothing more for me to say.

It was almost eight o'clock, and only a few moments after Pons came in that evening, when a faint rap sounded on the heavy oaken panels of the outer door. I rose at once and admitted a young woman whose attractiveness had not been done justice by Pons' comment at dinner. She wore no hat and her hair was slightly but agreeably disarranged, as if the wind had blown into it and not fully escaped; it was dark, ashen hair, complementing the grey of her eyes. She was dressed in a neat tweed walking suit, the jacket of which was unbuttoned, since the night was warm. In her right hand she carried a stick, which she tapped almost with impatience against her walking shoes as she stood looking from one to the other of us. Her eyes, however, with true woman's instinct, fixed on Pons even before he spoke.

"Miss Maureen Melham, I take it," said Pons, placing a chair for her and courteously inviting her to be seated, so that her face was illuminated by the lamp on the table, and so betrayed a distinct uneasiness. Her lips parted twice, but no words came. She flashed a glance at me, looked to the windows, looked back at Pons.

"Pray be at ease, Miss Melham," said Pons. "I observe you are carrying a heavy stick, obviously for protection; you may safely discard it here. Manifestly, you consider the stick necessary. Why?"

"In the light of past happenings, Mr. Pons, I cannot help but feel that I am in physical danger."

"Yes, I observed you were followed here tonight."

She started. "How could you know that?"

"Ah, I was behind you all the way from Melham Old Place. Apart from myself, whom I modestly assume to have been invisible, there were two people interested in your actions. I understood that your young man was the one, and had no difficulty concluding that he is not in favor at your home, for he met you some distance from it. But the other follower--I found him quite interesting."

"There was another? Besides yourself?" She was plainly frightened.

"Oh, yes. A short man, quite old, I should say; he walks with a slight limp."

Miss Melham's expression was briefly of fear before she controlled herself; nevertheless, she half-rose from her chair, and her hand clenched around the heavy stick. "It is he!" she cried. "The limping man. The man I came to see you about tonight."

"No, Miss Melham, forgive me," replied Pons calmly.

"The man who followed you tonight carried no cane; I understand the apparition you have seen of recent weeks is in the habit of carrying one."

The girl nodded and looked at Pons in some perplexity.

It was as apparent to her as it now was to me that Pons had withheld something from me at dinner, that he knew something more of the immediate background for Miss Melham's visit than he had cared to tell me.

"The man who followed you tonight bears a close resemblance to the man I saw about the premises of Melham Old Place once or twice this afternoon. Indeed, I should say the two men are one and the same. His left hand, I could not help seeing, is or seems crippled. Who is he?"

"He is Jasper Bayne, my uncle's valet and secretary."

"And presumably he has a reason for following you?"

"Yes. My uncle, Sir Andrew, is opposed to Hugh--my 'young man,' as you call him, whom I hope to make my fiance--and it is very likely that he sent Jasper to follow me and find out whether I met Hugh."

"Surely your uncle can have no valid opposition to a family as good as the Bettertons?"

"But he does. I have always been given to understand that Hugh's family is among the best in Northumberland, and therefore my uncle's opposition to him is most astonishing; he offers me no reason for his stand."

Pons' interest quickened. He leaned forward. "Ah, perhaps your uncle offers a substitute?"

"Yes, and that is the most puzzling feature of the matter, perhaps your uncle offers a substitute?"

"Do not keep us in suspense, Miss Melham."

"It is Robert Bayne--Jasper Bayne's son."

"Capital! Capital!" exclaimed Pons, smiling. "And young Bayne? What does he say of the matter?"

Miss Melham was briefly taken aback, not understanding that Pons' enthusiasm was prompted by his delight at this perplexing ramification. "As for Robert--he is a very sensible and well-educated young man. He does not relish the idea any more than I do, and he cannot understand why my uncle, who, though always fond of Robert, has never before given any indication that he would like him as a member of the family, should suddenly come out with such an idea. We have always been friendly, but there has never been any thought of marriage between us. Finally, though neither his father nor my uncle knows it, Robert is already secretly married."

"It would appear then very much like an understanding between your uncle and Jasper Bayne."

"Very much so, Mr. Pons. And that is all the more reason why I cannot understand it. Why Mr. Bayne should presume to think I would marry his son, and why my uncle does nothing to prevent Bayne from such presumption, actually going as far as to oppose my engagement to Hugh, are questions I cannot answer."

Pons smiled. "Ah, well, perhaps my poor talents may discover the answer for you."

"I would appreciate it very much if you could, Mr. Pons."

"But at the moment I am far more interested in the apparition of the limping man of whom you spoke."

"Yes, it was really about him that I came to see you. You have heard the legends, I suppose?"

Pons nodded. "It would be well, however, to review the entire matter. Let us begin with the first occurence you can remember."

"That was last August. I woke up one night and I heard a faint tapping, as if someone were walking about with a cane. I listened. It seemed to come from the long hall on the ground floor."

"You investigated?"

"Not then. The noise did not disturb me at first. I wondered who could be about so late--it was after one in the morning. Two nights later, I heard the same sound at about the same time. That time I got up and went into the hall on the second floor, where I sleep. But as soon as I opened my door, all sound ceased. On the following night, I heard similar sounds again, and after that, heard them regularly.

"I could not help beginning to analyze the sounds. It seemed clear that whoever it was walked with a stick. The more accustomed to it I became, the more I began to notice that the faint footfalls accompanying the taps of the cane were characterized by the peculiar irregularity of a man with one game leg." Our visitor's voice sank lower, and she leaned forward a little. "It was then, Mr. Pons, that I first thought of my father--since then, I cannot think of anything else!"

"Indeed! I was not aware that your father was in any way crippled."
"Oh, but he was, Mr. Pons. A month before we left London he fell and severely hurt his leg; since that time and up to the time of his disappearance, he habitually used a stick. The limping sound I heard during the night was one peculiar to him." She hesitated.

"Pray continue."

"I was afraid, Mr. Pons. I don't know why, but you are aware, of course, that I know nothing of what happened to my father, and for a while I thought that he was coming back--back from the other side. I have always believed him dead."

"And you thought his restless spirit walked?"

"I did, Mr. Pons. It was foolish, I suppose; but I could not help it. I saw nothing all that time, I just heard those dreadfully suggestive sounds; what was there left for me to think? For, each time I mentioned it, no one else had heard itm and I was looked at askance, as if I had taken leave of my senses."

"And then?"

"Then, Mr. Pons, on the night of September seventeenth, I woke up and heard the sounds approaching, as always, along the second storey hall. The tapping of the cane and the dragging footsteps paused outside my door, and it seemed to me that someone fumbled at the knob; then the sounds passed on. I got up cautiously and opened the door. There was no one--nothing in the hall.

"I was naturally much disturbed, and next morning I spoke to my uncle. He was also troubled, and immediately recalled the old family superstition--that whenever bad fortune comes upon our house, the spectre of the last member of the family to die appears to give warning by his presence."

Something in her manner bespoke her spirit. "You were not convinced, Miss Melham?"

"Certainly not. On the contrary," answered the young lady with considerable heat, "I began to think someone had got into the house with the deliberate intention of planning mischief."

"Is that not a curious change in your point-of-view?"

"Not as curious as it might seem," she answered readily. "My uncle's heart is not strong; it has never been strong since his initial attack. Any untoward event might bring on a fatal seizure."

"But surely you would benefit?"

"Not solely. There are several large bequests--to Bayne, to the widow of an old friend and neighbor, and so on.'

"Go on, Miss Melham."

"Then for a time nothing happened. In the interval--on the twentieth, to be exact--proposed that Hugh call on Uncle Andrew to suggest our engagement. Up to this time, you see, I had no suspicion that Uncle Andrew would oppose Hugh. But the suggestion that I made threw Uncle Andrew into a frightening fury; I could not understand it, and believed at first that he thought me guilty of a secret affair with Hugh. Naturally, this hurt me very much."

"That is most interesting," commented Pons. "Up to that time you had no reason to complain of your uncle's treatment?"

"None."

"You found him trying honestly to take your father's place?"

"Mr. Pons, almost from the day of my father's disappearance, Uncle Andrew has done everything in his power to keep me happy and satisfied here."

"Ah, and before then?"

"Well, before then, I think there was something of that old coldness about my mother that influenced him; he was kind, but reserved, somewhat aloof. As soon, however, as the full responsibility for me fell to him, Uncle Andrew thawed out and became very considerate and kind. That was all the more reason why I could not understand his abrupt rage."

"And what did you do?"

"At first I refused to consider what he had to say, but when I saw that he was genuinely upset and distressed, I promised to think the matter over if he would give me a month. He made some small objection, but finally consented. His attitude made me feel very awkward and strange; it seemed so different from his previous treatment of me."

"Yes, I daresay it did. And about the limping man?"

"I heard him again on the night of the twenty-first, on the second floor. And that night, when I threw open my door, I saw him, too. He stood at one end of the hall, and as I looked at him, he seemed to disappear. I don't know what happened; it was just as if he disintegrated, Mr. Pons. But above everything else, I noticed one horrible, frightening thing. Though I had only a momentary glimpse of him, dressed in a long white gown of some kind, with a darker gown over that, and carrying a heavy cane--Mr. Pons, I could have taken oath that he was the image of my father!"

"You were fully awake?"

"Fully. I made no mistake. Even the posture was familiar."

"You have considered the possibility of hallucination?" persisted Pons. "And the known fact that very often in such cases ore sees what one expects to see rather than what is actually there to be seen?"

"I thought of all that, Mr. Pons."

"You made no attempt to ascertain how the figure you saw vanished?"

"None. I cried out, and directly thereafter, my uncle called to me from his room. I ran there, which was only a few doors away from my own, and told him what I had just seen."

"Ah, and he?"

"He was not surprised. He seemed, in fact, to be expecting it. He fell back upon that old superstition and intimated that his own death was presaged in this apparition."

"He did not doubt that it was a spectre?"

"Not for a moment. He was insistent. He admitted, too, that he had not been feeling well, but he would not hear of getting the doctor when I suggested it, as I did, of course, immediately. After all, whatever differences there are between us, Uncle Andrew is all I have left."

"Did it occur to you to ascertain whether Jasper Bayne had seen the ghost?"

"It did. Mr. Pons, he not only had seen the ghost, but ventured to go so far as to tell me I was the cause of its appearance!"

"Ah, Mr. Bayne is exercising the fancied prerogatives of all servants who have become part of the household. What had your uncle to say of this?"

"He reprimanded Bayne, of course."

"And no doubt he was thereafter twice as uncivil to you?"

"Yes."

"And the apparition?"

"Continued to appear, though at longer intervals."

"Thus far you have not given any explanation of your impression that you are in physical danger, Miss Melham."

"Our lodgekeeper warned me one day that Jasper Bayne meant mischief, and since then I have continually carried this heavy stick."

"Has Bayne given you cause to believe the lodgekeepers warning?"

"Not apart from his hostility. He does not seem to like me. But then--I have been aware of being watched from time to time; I have never seen anyone, but I know someone  watches me."

"Inside or outside?"

"Both, Mr. Pons."

"Ah. And what is it you expect of me, Miss Melham?"

"I would like you to discover who it is walking about at night--phantom or man--and why."

Pons looked at her with a certain commiseration. "Does it not seem to you that there may be unpleasant aspects beneath the surface in this matter, Miss Melham? It is altogether probable that I may unearth facts which, to put it bluntly may be most objectionable."

"That makes no difference in my attitude, Mr. Pons. Will you or will you not help me?"

"I will."

"Very good. Thank you. Then I must warn you against Uncle Andrew. I know he would be furious if he discovered I had enlisted any outside aid in laying our ghost. If you visit Melham Old Place, as you undoubtedly must, please come in secret, and preferably by night; Uncle Andrew is suspicious of strangers, and he has always been highly sensitive about his partial paralysis."

"I understand."

"If possible, I would like you to come to the house tomorrow night--at or near ten o'clock. If you will go to the south wall, you will find the French windows left partly open. I will be waiting for you in that room."

She rose to go, and I got up to show her out.

"You may expect me, Miss Melham," said Pons, as our attractive visitor moved toward the door in my wake.

"I rely on you. Good night, Mr. Pons."

I came back into the study and found Pons bent over his notes.

 "Does it not seem to you that the night-jars have become suddenly active?" he asked, a smile at his thin lips.

From outside came the weird call of a night-jar, and immediately after, another and yet another; then came three short harsh calls. "The region is infested with the birds," I said.

"Ah, but such regularity! I fancy the cries are a signal for lovers' meetings. Now, then, come here, attend me, Parker." He thrust a paper toward me, and then, as I bent toward it to see that the paper he tendered me bore no writing whatever, he spoke again in a scarcely audible voice. "Raise your eyes very slowly. There is a man looking in through the window opposite."

Though I started slightly, I did as he suggested and saw, framed in the darkness of the window, faintly glowing from the light within the room, the pale white of a man's face. It vanished even as I looked, but not before I had seen two-high black lines of Mephistophelian eyebrows and eyes regarding us with burning hatred!

Instantly Pons was up and out of the house, leaving me in some agitation and concern test he had entered into danger, and unable to forget that malefic face at the window. When Pons at last returned, my relief knew no bounds.

"Thank heaven, you are safe!" I said. "Who was he?"

"Jasper Bayne. He followed Miss Melham here, and followed her back. I followed him. I cannot believe he means her harm, for his actions were rather protective than otherwise. She met young Betterton, but Bayne did not interfere, only keeping well out of sight. He watched her into the house, and it was not until her window showed light that Bayne himself went into the house. I continued to stand watch, and, observed shortly after Bayne's entrance a dimmed light make its appearance on the second floor, perhaps three windows--and three rooms--removed from Miss Melham's."

"But surely Bayne does not sleep on the second floor?" I cried, somewhat surprised that a gentleman who had given so much evidence of being class-conscious as Sir Andrew, should tolerate a servant's sleeping on the same floor as the members of his own family.

"Dear me, no! Certainly not. I submit he went up to report what he had seen of Miss Melham to Sir Andrew."

"T'he two have an agreement, then?"

"Of some kind, undoubtedly, I fancy. But what do you make of the affair, Parker?"

I had been giving the matter considerables thought. "It seems very simple at the outset, but you have so often warned me about coming to hurried conclusions that I hardly know whether I should say what I think or not."

Pons laughed. "If you have so little confidence in it, it must be assuredly be a faulty theory."

"Well, it strikes me that Bayne has a hold of some sort on Sir Andrew Melham, and that, as a price for his secrecy,
he demands that Sir Andrew's niece marry his son Robert, which would give the estate to his own line, since Miss Maureen is the only heir."

"And the spectre with the limp?"

"Surely it is Bayne in disguise?" I ventured. "For that might frighten Miss Melham into submission to the plan."

"Ingenious, Parker, if a little obvious. I congratulate you. But you seem to have forgotten that the central mystery is not that of the arrangement between Bayne and Sir Andrew; we must assume that such an arrangement exists, for whatever reasons. But there remains the fact that the limping man made his appearance before there was any suspicion that there was an understanding between Miss Melham and Hugh Betterton. It is always possible that Bayne may be the apparition, but in view of this circumstance, his motive must be questioned."

"What do you make of it, Pons?"

"I fancy it is a little early to formulate an opinion." He shook his head. "But I much fear that the matter is far from as simple as it seems to be. Miss Melham is staring far more deeply than she dreams."

"You have a theory, then?"

"Yes. It should be obvious, Parker. You have all the facts; you know my methods. Apply them."

With that I had to be content.

It was almost two o'clock in the next night when Pons appeared, following his rendezvous with Miss Melham. The expression of annoyance on his face apprised me that his expedition to Melham Old Place had produced anything but satisfactory results.

"A most disappointing affair," he said bitterly, moving his notes to one side. He struck a match and held it to his pipe; then he leaned back and regarded me for a moment in thoughtful silence.

"The spectre did not appear then?"

"On the contrary, he came on schedule. But my own plans were subject to events over which I had no control. Miss Melham did me the unexpected honor of having her young man present for help, if necessary, as she explained. Despite several pointed hints from me, he stayed. Since no amount of suggestion on my part was likely to send him away, I resigned myself, with results which were well-nigh disastrous.

"The room in which I met Miss Melham and Mr. Betterton is a kind of study, opening off the drawing room and looking out upon one end of the great hall on the lower floor of Melham Old Place. At the other end of the hall, a double stair leads up to the second story, or rather, to a landing half way up, and from there on it becomes a single stairway. Next to the foot of this stair, on the far side of the house, are the servants' quarters and, adjoining them, precisely opposite the drawing-room, are Jasper Bayne's rooms. All the other rooms on the ground floor are unoccupied. We stationed ourselves in the drawing-room, prepared to watch the hall for the appearance of Miss Melham's spectral man, and there we sat quietly until midnight."

'"At that hour, matters quickly came to a head. The spectre duly appeared--but on the far side of the double stair. He was descending slowly, moving along the wall toward us, and came steadily down into the hall itself. I need hardly say there was no suggestion of the supernatural about him, save that his face was not very visible, because it was sunk into the folds of a dressing-gown about his neck. He came on, limping and tapping his cane, much as Miss Melham had described him. He came, in fact, almost opposite us, when the futility of my plans became evident.

"Young Betterton, doubtless carried away by the sight of what Miss Melham had so often talked about, darted past 
me with a cry and lunged for the limping man. The spectre raised his cane and swung at him with telling effect.

Betterton fell, but before I could dash to his aid, Miss Melham was inconsiderate enough to faint in my arms. As a result, the spectre vanished in the melee, and on top of this ridiculous spectacle, the door of Jasper Bayne's room opened and he himself strode out into the hall, holding a lamp high in one hand, and fiercely grasping a stick in the 
other. He took in the tableau at a glance.

"'Mr. Solar Pons, I believe,' he said coldly.

"I nodded to him, and began to retreat to the drawing-room with Miss Melham, when she came to and struggled upright.

"I do not think you are welcome here, Mr. Solar Pons,' said Bayne with ill-concealed anger. 'Nor is he,' he added, pointing to Betterton.

"Miss Melham dismissed Bayne rather sharply, and we turned our attention to Betterton, who, for his pains, had received an unpleasant clout on the head, which, I'll wager, he will not soon forget, and which, with any luck, will incline him less to impulsive action. As far as the identity of the spectre is concerned, the entire evening was wasted. Besides accomplishing nothing, the household is now on guard, and we can expect nothing of any moment for some time to come."

"You did not see what happened to the spectre?"

"Ah, yes. I managed that. There are several points of interest to be noted. For instance, the cane which struck young Betterton is at least a very material object. I have no doubt we may assume that the spectre who wielded it is fully as material. He appeared, as I said, midway up the far side of the double stairs. Obviously then, he could not have walked the length of the great hall, gone upstairs, and been half-way down before being noticed, since we were watching for him. I fancy, therefore, he must have come not from the lower floor, but from the second storey. And as to his disappearance--this, took place just across the hall from where we were hiding in the drawing-room; in fact, it was almost precisely before Jasper Bayne's door."

"Surely that is conclusive!" I cried. "He simply got rid of his dressing-gown and came back out."

"Slowly, slowly, Parker. Not at all. He wore a dressing-gown and pyjamas. He was therefore abed, or at least he was in his room. If it must be admitted that the spectre came from the second storey, it could not have been Bayne, for we had his quarters under eye throughout the preceding two hours. No, I think we cannot suspect Bayne as playing ghost. His lamp was certainly not alight before the spectre appeared, for we would have noticed its glow beneath the door. And if Bayne did play the ghost, he certainly made an uncommonly swift job of getting rid of his paraphernalia and lighting his lamp. Yet, it is equally certain that the spectre disappeared into his room."

"I hold to Bayne, Pons."

"If so, what motive did he have to carry on his deception over a month before Miss Melham made known her attachment for Hugh Betterton?"

"As to that, I can't say. What of Sir Andrew?"

"Ah, you have reached that point, eh? I took occasion yesterday afternoon to consult the physician who attended Sir Andrew during his paralytic stroke, and I have his absoIute and unconditional assurance that Sir Andrew could never possibly walk again. I fear Sir Andrew is out of the question."

"Then we have a third party to consider."

"Obviously. And his identity ought to be clear enough. I am, however, not quite certain of the motive behind this complex and dark business, and I fear the matter must just rest until tonight's excitement at Melham Old Place is forgotten. If only Miss Melham had left matters entirely in my hands! As it is, I should not be surprised if events have been precipitated and we shall shortly hear from Miss Melham."

Pons spent the next two days making inquiries in Durham and about the countryside. He learned that Jasper was the son of the late Sir Mark Melham's secretary, and that he had grown up with the Melham boys, and had been as disturbed and grieved by Sir Peter's unsolved disappearance as Sir Andrew had been. Pons was able to make several routine examinations of Melham Old Place by neans of his binoculars, but could detect no signs of unusual activity.

However, matters were soon to be brought to a head.

On the night destined to resolve the mystery, a violent storm broke out. The day had been sullen and close; Pons had seen the storm approaching early in the evening and was in the house when it burst. We sat for some time listening to the furious driving of the rain against the windows, beating upon the glass and the shutters before a wind almost of gale proportions. I saw that Pons was listening intently, and indeed the wind was distinctly foreign to us, unused as we were to such blasts in London. I could not read, and Pons appeared to be ill at ease.

"I should not be surprised if something happens over there tonight, Parker," he said at last, turning to me.

"Why tonight?" I asked, smiling, "Because of the storm?"

"Dear me, no. But Miss Melham's month is up today. She may well be asked for her decision in regard to young Betterton. Since we know she has no intention of giving him up, and that young Bayne has no intention of marrying her, since he could not even if he wanted to, her decision will break the tension and will doubtless effect a rift between Bayne and Sir Andrew. What may come of that should be of considerable interest."

Pons looked up at the clock, while I turned his words over in my mind. It was ten minutes of midnight. "Well, it is almost twelve; if he still walks, the limping man will soon be on his rounds."

At this moment there came a furious pounding at the door. Pons was up on the instant, and I followed him into the hall. As he swung the door open, the limp figure of Miss Maureen Melham fell forward into the room. Pons caught her and supported her, heedless of the rain driving in through the open door. She was dripping wet, and breathing rapidly, obviously having run through wind and rain to the house. I closed the door and turned to find her clutching the lapels of Pons' dressing-gown.

"Mr. Pons. Something terrible has happened. Don't lose a moment! Jasper Bayne has been murdered, and my Uncle Andrew is dying,--shot, too!"

She brushed her hair 'from her eyes and stood away from him, for he took time only to seize his waterproof before he left the house. Miss Melham would have taken after him, tired and wet as she was, but yielded to my insistence that she wear my own waterproof; then the two of us ran blindly through the rain and wind, over open fields softened by the rain, through underbrush of the scattered copses on the way to Melham Old Place.

We were drenched to the skin when we got to the house. But Pons' wild run had got him there in ample time before us to have the situation already well in hand. A man had been dispatched to the headquarters of the county constabulary; another had been sent for young Betterton, since Pons assumed that Miss Melham would want him to take over when Pons had finished. We had entered by the French windows and had come out into the lower hall where a huddled group of servants stood at a distance from the body of Jasper Bayne, which lay at the foot of the stairs, clothed only in night-gown and dressing-robe. Bayne lay on his back, his arms flung wide; his face was no longer malevolent, being now white and pale, and his cold, sightless eyes were devoid of the hatred I had first seen in them. Eveb the black Mephistophelian brows were no longer terrifying. An irregular red stain on his breast told where he had been shot.

Pons was bustling about in a perfect storm of action--running in and out of Jasper Bayne's room and up and down the stairs. "Yes, Yes," be said excitedly, as we came up to him, "he was shot on the landing, and rolled down."

"But by whom?" I demanded.

"By whom but the limping man? The whole, ridiculous  jigsaw is clear as day, Parker; I have been only a little short of being obtuse. Now, then--we can do nothing for Bayne. Let us attend to Sir Andrew."

So saying, he hastened up the stairs, whither Miss Melham had already gone, and followed her into Sir Andrew's room, the door to which stood open.

Sir Andrew Melham lay in his low bed, breathing painfully. Miss Maureen knelt beside him.

"Your field, Parker," said Pons.

I bent above Sir Andrew, trying not to disturb too much Miss Melham's attention to him, for there was evident between them now a strong attachment; she held one of her uncle's thin hands in hers, and was trying hard to keep back her tears. The old man's thin outlines were plainly visible through the few coverings, which I turned back to attend to his wound. But it was manifest at a glance that he was dying. I staunched the flow of blood from his wound, and stood back.

Despite the look of age upon him, Sir Andrew's eyes were sharp and piercing. He looked past me to Pons, who had seen the weapon on the floor, identified Pons, and spoke to his niece.

"You had better go, Maureen. I wish to speak to these gentlemen, alone."

Miss Melham bowed her head and relinquished her hold on her uncle's hand. Sir Andrew's eyes followed her to the door; only when it closed behind her did he turn to Pons once more.

"Mr. Pons--you know?" he asked, watching him with his sharp eyes, which looked so vital and alive in his wrinkled features.

"Yes, Sir Peter!"

The dying man nodded. "I am Sir Peter Melham, yes. You can guess what we did, Bayne and I. We were mad, Mr. Pons--mad! It was the estate, of course. My brother swore that my daughter would not inherit at his death. I can't know now whether he meant it; but I thought he did, then, and it maddened me." He put one hand weakly over his eyes.
Pons said nothing.

"It is said the devil protects his own--and he put one in this house to protect me. But I killed him tonight, you see, and now myself, to keep everything from coming out." He challenged Pons. "For the love of God, sir, will you keep it from her?" He made a feeble gesture in the direction of the door through which his daughter had passed.

"I think it can be done, Sir Peter."

The dying man made an attempt to rise on his elbows, but it was too much for him; before Pons and I could reach him, the wound began to gush blood anew, and he fell back, coughing and collapsing into his bed. Sir Peter Melham was dead.

When we came from the room, we found the police and Hugh Betterton in charge. Pons went directly to Miss Maureen Melham, doubtless to tell her Sir Peter was dead. Then he stepped over to the county police and the coroner and drew them aside; they went together up to Sir Peter's room, and it was some time before they came down to where I waited.

An hour later, we were on our way back to Sir John Molline's country house. The storm had passed now, and moon shone from the western heavens, casting a dim, eery light on the landscape, which was still so wet that our progress was slow. We walked for some distance before I spoke at length to say that the solution of the puzzle left me little to conjecture, though I must admit I was not entirely clear as to what had taken place.

"Ah, it was simple enough," said Pons. "Suppose you go back three years to that October night when Sir Peter left Melham Old Place on the way to Prague. It should be relatively easy, in the light of tonight's events, to follow him. At Durward he purchased his ticket for Dover; he stepped into the train from Edinburgh, and that was the last seen of him. Sir Peter got into the train, and as soon as he began to move--perhaps even before--he got out.


"But surely he would have been seen!" I cried.

"The hour was late. He may have waited until the train had pulled out of Durward and got back through the countryside. His motive for making away with his brother was obvious; he himself told us of it before he died. He had Bayne's aid, and Sir Andrew undoubtedly lies buried in some remote spot on the estate. The boldest stroke of the whole wretched business followed, when Sir Peter took his dead brother's place. As you were told, they were twins; their resemblance was marked; moreover, Sir Peter had watched his brother long enough to have memorized his actions; and he knew that since Sir Andrew no longer had regular medical attention, he was safe. His greatest difficulty lay in deceiving his daughter, but he succeeded. Next to that, his inability to enjoy relaxation imposed such a strain on him that he had to resort to walking about by night.

"So the stage was set for Jasper Bayne's betrayal. You can well conceive what Sir Peter's feeling must have been when he discovered that Bayne had promised himself that Maureen Meiham must marry his son, Robert. From that time on the breach between the murderers widened, and doubtless then, too, Sir Peter's nocturnal ramblings were made with less care and more agitation, as he passed to and from Bayne's room and his own, and so he was mistaken for his own spectre by his daughter. On the night we almost had him, he was doubtless on his way to Bayne's room, and remained hidden there until the household was once again quiet.

"What happened tonight must be clear. Miss Melham gave her supposed 'uncle' her decision; he in turn informed Bayne when Bayne came to his room; Bayne delivered his ultimatum, which was the threat of revelation--very probably not to the police, since that would involve him, too--but to Miss Melham, in the knowledge that she, to conceal her father's crime, would acquiesce to Bayne's plan, for Bayne never did know of his son's marriage; and Sir Peter gave Bayne his answer--which was to pursue him from the room and shoot him as he was descending the stairs, after which, as we have seen, he shot himself."

"Amazing!"

"A remarkable but annoying affair in which I failed to distinguish myself, because I disregarded one of my own primary concepts--that what is most baffling on the face of matters is often most simple in essence."