The first shock was over. Craig’s body had been removed, and the girls had taken Mary, half stunned with grief, to their room. French and Quest were left alone.
“This is some disappointment,” the former remarked gloomily.
“It is a disappointment,” Quest said slowly, “which may clear the way to bigger things.”
“What’s in your mind now?” French enquired.
Quest shook his head.
“A turmoil. First of all, where is the Professor?”
“Must have scooted right away home,” French suggested. “He was looking pretty sick all the time. Guess it must have been a powerful shock for him, and he isn’t so young as he used to be.”
“Give me that paper of Craig’s again,” Quest asked, stretching out his hand.
The Inspector produced the document from his inner pocket, and Quest, stretching it out upon his knee, read it word for word.
“Never to communicate or to have anything to do with any one of the name of Ashleigh, eh?” he remarked, as he handed it back again. “Rather a queer provision, that, French.”
“I’ve been thinking that myself,” the Inspector admitted. “Seems to be rather reversing the positions, doesn’t it?”
Quest glanced at the clock.
“Well,” he said, “if you’re ready, Inspector, we’ll be getting along.”
“Where to?” French demanded.
Quest looked for a moment surprised. Just then Lenora entered the room.
“Are you going out?” she asked Quest.
He nodded.
“The Inspector and I are going to have a look for that black box,” he told her.
“Won’t you want me?”
He shook his head.
“I think you girls have had as much as is good for you of this sort of business,” he declared grimly.
“But it’s all over now,” Lenora protested.
Quest buttoned up his coat and motioned to French to follow him.
“I’m not so sure,” he said. “I’ll ’phone if we want you, Lenora. We shall be at the Professor’s.”
The two men drove to the outskirts of the city almost in silence, while several of the officers followed in another taxi. The Professor’s house seemed more than ever deserted as they drew up at the front door. They entered without ringing and crossed the hall towards the library. On the threshold Quest paused and held up his finger.
“Some one is in there,” he whispered, stepping quickly forward. “Come!”
He threw open the door. The room was empty, yet both Quest and French were conscious of a curious conviction that it had been occupied within the last few seconds. French even shook out the curtains and swung open the doors of a bureau. There was no sign of anybody, however, nor any evidence as to how they could have left the room.
“Queer, but it seemed to me I heard some one,” French muttered.
“I was sure of it,” Quest replied, shaking the curtains at the back of the door.
They stood still for a moment and listened. The silence in the empty house was almost unnatural. Quest turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
“At any rate,” he said, “Craig’s dying thoughts must have been truthful. Come.”
He led the way to the fireplace, went down on his knees and passed his hands over the bricks. The third one he touched, shook. He tapped it—without a doubt it was hollow. With his penknife he loosened the mortar a little and drew it out easily. The back was open. Inside was the black box.
“Craig’s secret at last!” French muttered hoarsely. “Bring it to the light, quick!”
They were unemotional men but the moment was supreme. The key to the mystery of these tragical weeks was there in their hands! Their eyes almost devoured those few hastily scrawled words buried with so much care:
See page 62, January number, American Medical Journal 1905.
They looked at one another. They repeated vaguely this most commonplace of messages. As the final result of their strenuous enterprise, these cryptic words seemed pitifully inadequate. Quest’s face darkened. He crumpled the paper in his fingers.
“There must be some meaning in this,” he muttered. “It can’t be altogether a fool’s game we’re on. Wait.”
He moved towards a table which usually stood against the wall, but which had obviously been dragged out recently into the middle of the room. It was covered with bound volumes. Quest glanced at one and exclaimed softly.
“American Medical Journal, 1905! French, there’s something in this message, after all.”
He turned over the pages rapidly. Then he came to a stop. Page 60 was there; page 62 had been neatly removed with a pair of scissors.
“The Professor!” he cried. “The Professor’s been at work here!”
The two men stood looking at one another across the table. Strange thoughts were framing themselves in the brains of both of them. Then there came a startling and in its way a dramatic interlude. Through the empty house came the ringing of the electric bell from the front door, shrill and insistent. Without a moment’s hesitation, Quest hurried out, and French followed him. On the door-step was another surprise. Lenora and Laura were there, the former carrying a small, black-bound volume.
“Don’t be cross,” she begged quickly. “We just had to come. Look! We picked this up underneath the chair where Craig was sitting. It must have slipped from his pocket. You see what is written on it? DIARY OF JOHN CRAIG.”
Quest took it in his hand.
“This ought to be interesting,” he remarked. “Come along in.”
They passed into the library. French lingered behind for a moment and caught up with them just as they were opening the book underneath the electric lamp.
“See what I’ve found!” he exclaimed. “It was just by the side of the wall there. Where’s that journal?”
He spread out the piece of paper—it fitted exactly into the empty space. They all read together:
“Professor Ashleigh, after being bitten by the anthropoid, rapidly developed hydrophobia of a serious nature. After treatment with a new serum the patient was relieved of the hydrophobic symptoms, but to my horror this mild-mannered, humane man seems possessed at times of all the characteristics of the brutal anthropoid—cunning, thievery, brutality. I do not know what may come of this. I hesitate to put even these words on to paper. I am doubtful as to what course, in the interests of humanity, I ought to take.
(Signed) “James Merrill, M.D.
“Editor’s Note. Just as we go to press, a cable announces the terrible death of Doctor Merrill, the writer of the above notes. He was attacked by wild animals while alone in a South American jungle, and torn to pieces.”
There was a queer little silence among the company. No one seemed inclined for speech. They looked at one another in dumb, wondering horror. Then Quest drew a penknife from his pocket and with a turn of his wrist forced the lock of the diary. They all watched him with fascinated eyes. It was something to escape from their thoughts. They leaned over as he spread the book out before him. Those first two sentences were almost in the light of a dedication:
“For