"Who's he?"
"A person in a book I used to read as a boy."
"Oh–does he come in 'The Last Days of Pompeii'?"
"No–another book–I daresay you escaped it. It's rather dull."
"I never read much except Henty and Fenimore Cooper at school.... But–have I got rather an extra good memory, then?"
"You have a better memory than you credit yourself with."
"Then why can't I remember all the medical stuff? It all goes out of my head like a sieve."
"Well, why can't you?" said Lord Peter, standing on the hearthrug and smiling down at his guest.
"Well," said the young man, "the chaps who examine one don't ask the same sort of questions you do."
"No?"
"No–they leave you to remember all by yourself. And it's beastly hard. Nothing to catch hold of, don't you know? But, I say–how did you know about Tommy Pringle being the funny man and–"
"I didn't, till you told me."
"No; I know. But how did you know he'd be there if you did ask? I mean to say–I say," said Mr. Piggott, who was becoming mellowed by influences themselves not unconnected with the alimentary canal–"I say, are you rather clever, or am I rather stupid?"
"No, no," said Lord Peter, "it's me. I'm always askin' such stupid questions, everybody thinks I must mean somethin' by 'em."
This was too involved for Mr. Piggott.
"Never mind," said Parker, soothingly, "he's always like that. You mustn't take any notice. He can't help it. It's premature senile decay, often observed in the families of hereditary legislators. Go away, Wimsey, and play us the 'Beggar's Opera,' or something."
"That's good enough, isn't it?" said Lord Peter, when the happy Mr. Piggott had been despatched home after a really delightful evening.
"I'm afraid so," said Parker. "But it seems almost incredible."
"There's nothing incredible in human nature," said Lord Peter; "at least, in educated human nature. Have you got that exhumation order?"
"I shall have it to-morrow. I thought of fixing up with the workhouse people for to-morrow afternoon. I shall have to go and see them first."
"Right you are; I'll let my mother know."
"I begin to feel like you, Wimsey, I don't like this job."
"I like it a deal better than I did."
"You are really certain we're not making a mistake?"
Lord Peter had strolled across to the window. The curtain was not perfectly drawn, and he stood gazing out through the gap into lighted Piccadilly. At this he turned round:
"If we are," he said, "we shall know to-morrow, and no harm will have been done. But I rather think you will receive a certain amount of confirmation on your way home. Look here, Parker, d'you know, if I were you I'd spend the night here. There's a spare bedroom; I can easily put you up."
Parker stared at him.
"Do you mean–I'm likely to be attacked?"
"I think it very likely indeed."
"Is there anybody in the street?"
"Not now; there was half an hour ago."
"When Piggott left?"
"Yes."
"I say–I hope the boy is in no danger."
"That's what I went down to see. I don't think so. Fact is, I don't suppose anybody would imagine we'd exactly made a confidant of Piggott. But I think you and I are in danger. You'll stay?"
"I'm damned if I will, Wimsey; why should I run away?"
"Bosh!" said Peter, "you'd run away all right if you believed me, and why not? You don't believe me. In fact, you're still not certain I'm on the right tack. Go in peace, but don't say I didn't warn you."
"I won't; I'll dictate a message with my dying breath to say I was convinced."
"Well, don't walk–take a taxi."
"Very well, I'll do that."
"And don't let anybody else get into it."
"No."
It was a raw, unpleasant night. A taxi deposited a load of people returning from the theatre at the block of flats next door, and Parker secured it for himself. He was just giving the address to the driver, when a man came hastily running up from a side street. He was in evening dress and an overcoat. He rushed up, signalling frantically.
"Sir–sir!–dear me! why, it's Mr. Parker! How fortunate! If you would be so kind–summoned from the club–a sick friend–can't find a taxi–everybody going home from the theatre–if I might share your cab–you are returning to Bloomsbury? I want Russell Square–if I might presume–a matter of life and death."
He spoke in hurried gasps, as though he had been running violently and far. Parker promptly stepped out of the taxi.
"Delighted to be of service to you, Sir Julian," he said; "take my taxi. I am going down to Craven Street myself, but I'm in no hurry. Pray make use of the cab."
"It's extremely kind of you," said the surgeon. "I am ashamed–"
"That's all right," said Parker, cheerily. "I can wait." He assisted Freke into the taxi. "What number? 24 Russell Square, driver, and look sharp."
The taxi drove off. Parker remounted the stairs and rang Lord Peter's bell.
"Thanks, old man," he said. "I'll stop the night, after all."
"Come in," said Wimsey.
"Did you see that?" asked Parker.
"I saw something. What happened exactly?"
Parker told his story. "Frankly," he said, "I've been thinking you a bit mad, but now I'm not quite so sure of it."
Peter laughed.
"Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed. Bunter, Mr. Parker will stay the night."
"Look here, Wimsey, let's have another look at this business. Where's that letter?"
Lord Peter produced Bunter's essay in dialog. Parker studied it for a short time in silence.
"You know, Wimsey, I'm as full of objections to this idea as an egg is of meat."
"So'm I, old son. That's why I want to dig up our Chelsea pauper. But trot out your objections."
"Well–"
"Well, look here, I don't pretend to be able to fill in all the blanks myself. But here we have two mysterious occurrences in one night, and a complete chain connecting the one with another through one particular person. It's beastly, but it's not unthinkable."
"Yes, I know all that. But there are one or two quite definite stumbling-blocks."
"Yes, I know. But, see here. On the one hand, Levy disappeared after being last seen looking for Prince of Wales Road at nine o'clock. At eight next morning a dead man, not unlike him in general outline, is discovered in a bath in Queen Caroline Mansions. Levy, by Freke's own admission, was going to see Freke. By information received from Chelsea workhouse a dead man, answering to the description of the Battersea corpse in its natural state, was delivered that same day to Freke. We have Levy with a past, and no future, as it were; an unknown vagrant with a future (in the cemetery) and no past, and Freke stands between their future and their past."
"That looks all right–"
"Yes. Now, further: Freke has a motive for getting rid of Levy–an old jealousy."
"Very old–and not much of a motive."
"People have been known to do that sort of thing.* You're thinking that people don't keep up old jealousies for twenty years or so. Perhaps not. Not just primitive, brute jealousy. That means a word and a blow. But the thing that rankles is hurt vanity. That sticks. Humiliation. And we've all got a sore spot we don't like to have touched. I've got it. You've got it. Some blighter said hell knew no fury like a woman scorned. Stickin' it on to women, poor devils. Sex is every man's loco spot–you needn't fidget, you know it's true–he'll take a disappointment, but not a humiliation. I knew a man once who'd been turned down–not too charitably–by a girl he was engaged to. He spoke quite decently about her. I asked what had become of her. 'Oh,' he said, 'she married the other fellow.' And then burst out–couldn't help himself. 'Lord, yes!' he cried. 'I think of it–jilted for a Scotchman!' I don't know why he didn't like Scots, but that was what got him on the raw. Look at Freke. I've read his books. His attacks on his antagonists are savage. And he's a scientist. Yet he can't bear opposition, even in his work, which is where any first-class man is most sane and open-minded. Do you think he's a man to take a beating from any man on a side-issue? On a man's most sensitive side-issue? People are opinionated about side-issues, you know. I see red if anybody questions my judgment about a book. And Levy–who was nobody twenty years ago–romps in and carries off Freke's girl from under his nose. It isn't the girl Freke would bother about–it's having his aristocratic nose put out of joint by a little Jewish nobody.