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 manoeuvre 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 buttonholes 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 out, “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 ruff&an. Hullo! here we are, I think! ”
We had stopped at the end of another stableyard, 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