enuity I could not
judge. He had recently bought a second-hand Blickensderfer which
probably had a literary typewheel, since it was purchased from a
literary man; and that machine showed the characteristic mark on the
small "e." The two remaining points, indeed, were not so clear.
Obviously I could form no opinion as to whether or not Thorndyke held
any exclusive information concerning him, and, with reference to his
knowledge of my friend's habits, I was at first inclined to be doubtful
until I suddenly recalled, with a pang of remorse and self-accusation,
the various details that I had communicated to Juliet and that she might
easily, in all innocence, have handed on to Walter. I had, for instance,
told her of Thorndyke's preference for the Trichinopoly cheroot, and of
this she might very naturally have spoken to Walter, who possessed a
supply of them. Again, with regard to the time of our arrival at King's
Cross, I had informed her of this in a letter which was in no way
confidential, and again there was no reason why the information should
not have been passed on to Walter, who was to have been one of the party
at the family dinner. The coincidence seemed complete enough, in all
truth; yet it was incredible that Reuben's cousin could be so
blackhearted a villain or could have any motive for these dastardly
crimes.

Suddenly a new idea struck me. Mrs Hornby had obtained access to this
typewriting machine; and if Mrs. Hornby could do so, why not John
Hornby? The description would, for the most part, fit the elder man as
well as the younger, though I had no evidence of his possessing any
special mechanical skill; but my suspicions had already fastened upon
him, and I remembered that Thorndyke had by no means rejected my theory
which connected him with the crime.

At this point, my reflections were broken in upon by Mrs. Hornby, who
grasped my arm and uttered a deep groan. We had reached the corner of
the Old Bailey, and before us were the frowning walls of Newgate. Within
those walls, I knew--though I did not mention the fact--that Reuben
Hornby was confined with the other prisoners who were awaiting their
trial; and a glance at the massive masonry, stained to a dingy grey by
the grime of the city, put an end to my speculations and brought me back
to the drama that was so nearly approaching its climax.

Down the old thoroughfare, crowded with so many memories of hideous
tragedy; by the side of the gloomy prison; pas