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Such, alas! was the British Intelligence Department – an organisation laughed at by the Secret Services of each of our Allies.

The folly of it all was really pathetic.

Jack Sainsbury knew much of this. He had, indeed, been, through Dr Jerome Jerrold, a friend of his, behind the scenes. Like all the world, he had read the optimistic, hide-the-truth newspapers. Often he had smiled in disbelief. Yet, on that afternoon, his worst fears had in a single instant been confirmed. He knew the volcano upon the edge of which Great Britain was seated.

What should he do? How should he act?

In the narrow booking-office of Swiss Cottage station he stood for a moment, hesitating to take his ticket.

Of a sudden an idea crossed his mind. He knew a certain man – his intimate friend. Could he help him? Dare he reveal his suspicions without being laughed at for his pains?

Yes. He would risk being derided, because the safety of the Empire was now at stake.

After all, he – Jack Sainsbury – was a well-bred Briton, without a strain of the hated Teutonic blood in his veins.

He would speak the truth, and expose that man who was so cleverly luring the Empire to its doom.

He passed before the little pigeonhole of the booking-office and took his ticket – an action which was destined to have a greater bearing upon our national defence than any person even with knowledge of the facts could ever dream.

Chapter Three.
The House in Wimpole Street

Just before eleven o’clock that night Jack Sainsbury stopped at a large, rather severe house half-way up Wimpole Street – a house the door of which could be seen in the daytime to be painted a royal blue, thus distinguishing it from its rather dingy green-painted neighbours.

In response to his ring at the visitors’ bell, a tall, middle-aged, round-faced manservant opened the door.

“Is Dr Jerrold in?” Jack inquired.

“Yes, sir,” was the man’s quick reply; and then, as Sainsbury entered, he added politely: “Nice evening, sir.”

“Very,” responded the visitor, laying-down his hat and stick and taking off his overcoat in the wide, old-fashioned hall.

Dr Jerome Jerrold, though still a young man, was a consulting physician of considerable eminence, and, in addition, was Jack’s most intimate friend. Their fathers had been friends, living in the same remote country village, and, in consequence, ever since his boyhood he had known the doctor.

Jack was a frequent visitor at the doctor’s house, Jerrold always being at home to him whenever he called. The place was big and solidly furnished, a gloomy abode for a bachelor without any thought of marrying. It had belonged to Jerrold’s aunt, who had left it to him by her will, together with a comfortable income; hence her nephew had found it, situated as it was in the centre of the medical quarter of London, a most convenient, if dull, place of abode.

On the ground floor was the usual depressing waiting-room, with its big round table littered with illustrated papers and magazines; behind it the consulting-room, with its businesslike writing-table – whereon many a good man’s death-warrant had been written in that open case-book – its heavy leather-covered furniture, and its thick Turkey carpet, upon which the patient trod noiselessly.

Above, in the big room on the first floor, Jerome Jerrold had his cosy library – for he was essentially a studious man, his literary mind having a bent for history, his “History of the Cinquecento” being one of the standard works upon that period. Indeed, while on the ground floor all was heavy, dull and gloomy, well in keeping with the dismal atmosphere which all the most famous West-End doctors seem to cultivate, yet, on the floor above, one passed instantly into far brighter, more pleasant and more artistic surroundings.

Without waiting for the servant, Thomasson, to conduct him upstairs, Jack Sainsbury ran lightly up, as was his habit, and tried the door of the doctor’s den, when, to his surprise, he found it locked.

He twisted the handle again, but it was certainly firmly fastened.

“Jerome!” he cried, tapping at the door. “Can I come in? It’s Jack!”

But there was no reply. Sainsbury strained his ears at the door, but could detect no movement within.

A taxicab rushed past; then a moment later, when the sound had died away, he cried again —

“Jerome! I’m here! I want to see you, old fellow. Open the door.”

Still there was no answer.

Thomasson, standing at the foot of the wide, old-fashioned stairs, heard his master’s visitor, and asked —

“Is the door locked, sir?”

“Yes,” Jack shouted back.

“That’s very strange?” remarked the man. “I’ve let nobody in since Mr Trustram, of the Admiralty, went away – about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Has he been here?” Jack asked. “I met him here the other day. He struck me as being a rather surly man, and I didn’t like him at all,” declared Sainsbury, with his usual frankness.

“Neither do I, sir, strictly between ourselves,” replied Thomasson quite frankly. “He’s been here quite a lot lately. His wife consulted the master about three months ago, and that’s how they first met, I believe. But can’t you get in?”

“No. Curious, isn’t it?”

“Very. The doctor never locks his door in the usual way,” Thomasson said, ascending the stairs with Sainsbury, and himself trying the handle.

He knocked loudly, asking —

“Are you in there, sir?” But still no response was given.

“I can’t make this out, Mr Sainsbury,” exclaimed the man, turning to him with anxiety on his pale face. “The key’s in the lock – on the inside too! He must be inside, and he’s locked himself in. Why, I wonder?”

Jack Sainsbury bent and put his eye to the keyhole. The room within was lit, for he could see the well-filled bookcase straight before him, and an empty chair was plainly visible.

Instantly he listened, for he thought in the silence – at that moment there being an absence of traffic out in the street – that he heard a slight sound, as though of a low, metallic click.

Again he listened, holding his breath. He was not mistaken. A slight but quite distinct sharp click could be heard, as though a piece of metal had struck the window-pane. Once – twice – it was repeated, afterwards a long-drawn sigh.

Then he heard no more.

“Open the door, Jerrold!” he cried impatiently. “Don’t play the fool. What’s the matter, old chap?”

“Funny – very funny – isn’t it!” Thomasson exclaimed, his brows knit in mystification.

“Most curious,” declared Sainsbury, now thoroughly anxious. “How long was Mr Trustram here?”

“He dined out with the doctor – at Prince’s, I think – and they came back together about half-past nine. While Mr Trustram was here he was on the telephone twice or three times. Once he was rung up by Mr Lewin Rodwell.”

“Mr Lewin Rodwell!” echoed Sainsbury. “Did you happen to hear anything of their conversation?”

“Well, not much, sir,” was the servant’s discreet reply. “I answered the ’phone at first, and it was Mr Rodwell speaking. He told me who he was, and then asked if Mr Trustram was with the doctor. I said he was, and at once went and called him.”

“Did Mr Trustram appear to be on friendly terms with Mr Rodwell?” asked the young man eagerly.

“Oh! quite. I heard Mr Trustram laughing over the ’phone, and saying ‘All right – yes, I quite understand. It’s awfully good of you to make the suggestion. I think it excellent. I’ll propose it to-morrow – yes, at the club to-morrow at four.’”

Suggestion? What suggestion had Lewin Rodwell made to that official of the Transport Department – Lewin Rodwell, of all men!

Jack Sainsbury stood before that locked door, for the moment unable to think. He was utterly dumbfounded.

Those words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted – the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean?

Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany.

“Speak, sir! Do speak!” he implored. “Are you all right?”

Still there was no reply.

“He may have fainted!” Jack suggested. “Something may have happened to him!”

“I hope not, sir,” replied the man very anxiously. “I’ll just run outside and see whether the window is open. If so, we might get a ladder.”

The man dashed downstairs and out into the street, but a moment later he returned breathlessly, saying —

“No. Both windows are closed, just as I closed them at dusk. And the curtains are drawn; not a chink of light is showing through. All we can do, I fear, is to force the door.”

“You are quite sure he’s in the room?”

“Positive, sir.”

“Did you see him after Mr Trustram left?”

“No, I didn’t. I let Mr Trustram out, and as he wished me good-night he hailed a passing taxi, and then I went down and read the evening paper. I always have it after the doctor’s finished with it.”

“Well, Thomasson, what is to be done?” asked Sainsbury, essentially a young man of action. “We must get into this room – and at once. I don’t like the present aspect of things a bit.”

“Neither do I, sir. Below I’ve got the jemmy we use for opening packing-cases. We may be able to force the door with that.”

And once again the tall, thin, wiry man disappeared below. Jack Sainsbury did not see how the man, when he had disappeared into the basement, stood in the kitchen his face blanched to the lips and his thin hands trembling.

It was only at the moment when Thomasson was alone that his marvellous self-possession forsook him. On the floor above he remained cool, collected, anxious, and perfectly unruffled. Below, and alone, the cook and housemaid not having returned, they being out for a late evening at the theatre, a craven fear possessed him.

It would have been quite evident to the casual observer that the man, Thomasson, possessed some secret fear of what had occurred in the brief interval between Mr Trustram’s departure and Sainsbury’s arrival. Tall and pale-faced, he stood in the big basement kitchen, with its rows of shining plated covers and plate-racks, motionless and statuesque: his head upon his breast, his teeth set, his cheeks as white as paper.

But only for a moment. A second later he drew a deep breath, nerved himself with a superhuman effort, and then, opening a cupboard, took out a steel tool with an axe-head at one end and a curved and pronged point at the other – very much like a burglar’s jemmy. Such a tool was constructed for strong leverage, and, quite cool as before, he carried it up the two flights of stairs to where Jack stood before the locked door, eager and impatient.

Sainsbury, being the younger of the pair, took it, and inserting the flat chisel-like end into the slight crevice between the stout polished door and the lintel, worked it in with leverage, endeavouring to break the lock from its fastening.

This proved unsuccessful, for, after two or three attempts, the woodwork of the lintel suddenly splintered and gave way, leaving the door locked securely as before.

Time after time he tried, but with no other result than breaking away the lintel of the door.

What mystery might not be contained in that locked room?

His hands trembled with excitement and nervousness. Once he had thought of summoning the police by telephone, but such an action might, he thought, for certain reasons which he knew, annoy his friend the doctor, therefore he hesitated.

Probably Jerrold had fainted, and as soon as they could get at him he would recover and be quite right again. He knew how strenuously he had worked of late at Guy’s, in those wards filled with wounded soldiers. Only two days before, Jerrold had told him, in confidence, that he very much feared a nervous breakdown, and felt that he must get away and have a brief rest.

Because of that, Sainsbury believed that his friend had fainted after his hard day at the hospital, and that as soon as they could reach him all would be well.

But why had he locked the door of his den? For what reason had he desired privacy as soon as Trustram had left him?

Again and again both of them used the steel lever upon the door, until at last, taking it from Thomasson’s hands, Jack placed the bright curved prong half-way between the lock and the ground and, with a well-directed blow, he threw his whole weight upon it.

There was a sharp snap, a crackling of wood, the door suddenly flew back into the room, and the young man, carried by the impetus of his body, fell headlong forward upon the dark red carpet within.

Chapter Four.
His Dying Words

When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.

The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.

Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.

Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.

“Surely he’s not dead, sir!” gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.

“I hope not,” was Sainsbury’s reply. “If so, there’s a mystery here that we must solve.” Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, “Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!”

“I’ll get some water,” suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master’s face.

Sainsbury, who had the doctor’s head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.

“What can have happened?” queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.

“It’s a mystery, sir – ain’t it?” remarked Thomasson.

“One thing is certain – that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It’s still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.”

“I’ll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He’s the doctor’s greatest friend,” suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.

It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram’s departure and Jack’s arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.

Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?

He gazed down into his friend’s white, drawn face – a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.

He bent to his friend’s breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctor’s lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.

Was he dead? Surely not.

Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.

He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.

Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friend’s shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement – no sign of life.

A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.

“I’ve spoken to Sir Houston, sir,” he said. “He’s on his way round in a taxi.”

Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctor’s face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsbury’s arm convulsively.

For a few moments he looked straight into his friend’s face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.

“Why, it’s Jack!” he gasped, recognising his friend. “You – I – I felt a sudden pain – so strange, and in an instant I – ah! I – I wonder – save me – I – I – ah! how far off you are! No – no! don’t leave me – don’t. I – I’ve been shot – shot! – I know I have – ah! what pain – what agony! I – ”

And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsbury’s arms like a stone.

Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.

In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.

“Gone! I’m afraid,” he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.

Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friend’s strange words, whereupon the great pathologist – the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime – exclaimed —

“The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?”

Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustram’s departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.

“The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door,” he went on. “I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.”

“What inquiry?” asked Sir Houston quickly.

“Ah! sir – that, of course, I don’t know,” was the servant’s response. “My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his day’s work.”

The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession – for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.

Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words – that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.

Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.

“This is a mystery,” exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. “Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?”

“Yes, Sir Houston,” replied Thomasson. “Curious – most curious,” exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: “The poor fellow declared that he’d been shot. Is that so?”

“Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, ‘I’ve been shot! I know I have!’”

“And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury,” Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.

“Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir,” declared Thomasson. “I suppose there’s no one concealed here in the room?” he added, glancing apprehensively around.

In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment – the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.

The whole affair was a profound mystery.

Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.

Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrold’s coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.

To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.

“I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death – sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show,” Sir Houston remarked.

“There will have to be an inquest, won’t there?” asked Sainsbury.

“Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts,” urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: “At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.”

Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead man’s nether lip.

“Curious,” he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. “By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he can’t have committed suicide!”

And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.

“I don’t see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston,” answered Sainsbury.

“But he may have swallowed it in tablet form,” the other suggested.

“Ah! yes. I never thought of that!”

“His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.”

“Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life?” remarked Sainsbury.

“If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do,” Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.

An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.

“Had we not better examine them?” he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.

Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.

All were without interest – letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.

There were words on the envelope in Jerrold’s neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:

“Private. For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.”

Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsbury’s lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.

“Ah!” he sighed. “Suicide! I thought he would leave something!”