THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOTHEBY SALESMAN
A Solar Pons story
By August Derleth
(From Regarding Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of Solar Pons, Copyright 1945 by August Derleth)
Version 1.0 - January 20, 2002

IT WAS on a warm summer night in mid-August that the curious matter of the Sotheby salesman came to the notice of my friend, Solar Pons. Fortunately, Pons had no problem in hand; he and I had spent the greater part of the day in Soho, moving idly from one place to another. Shortly after eleven o'clock that night we returned to our lodgings in Praed Street and found the telegram which was to introduce us to the mystery at Sotheby.

CAN YOU COME DOWN TO SOTHEBY AT ONCE EXTRAORDINARY AFFAIR HAS TAKEN PLACE HERE SOMETHING QUITE IN YOUR LINE
                              Jeremy Hudson

"Sotheby," I said. "Where is it?"

"Just south of Aldershot," answered Pons. "It's only a village, if I'm not mistaken. Can't have more than a thousand inhabitants."

"I don't remember having any acquaintance with Hudson."

"I daresay you haven't. He's an interesting chap; police inspector at Aldershot. His mind has on more than one occasion struck me as promisingly acute. I'm certain that if he must resort to me, the problem is more than ordinarily interesting." Pons looked at his watch. "We've just time to make the twelve-ten at Victoria."

Within a half hour we were well on our way to Sotheby. Pons was in good spirits, anticipating an interesting puzzle, and he had put me in much the same frame of mind. At Woking Pons was fortunate enough to procure a copy of The Aldershot Chronicle from a local lad, and there we found reported what was undoubtedly the matter which had incited Hudson's wire.

CURIOUS AFFAIR AT SOTHEBY
Salesman Slain in Empty House

The body of Mr. Peter Woodall was found late this afternoon in an empty house on Pearsall Street, the property of Mr. William Hendricks, who lives next door. The dead man was identified as a salesman by several merchants of Sotheby who came to view the body. It was later ascertained that the late Mr. Woodall was native to Aldershot, and Police Inspector Hudson was summoned to take charge of the investigation.

An early examination shows that Mr. Woodall was killed by a rifle shot, and that he had already been dead some time, between eighteen and twenty-two hours, when found. The Chronicle was sent to examine into the matter.

"Hm!" muttered Pons. "This is the seven o'clock edition of the paper, and the man had been dead between eighteen and twenty-two hours when found late this afternoon. That would put the murder at somewhere around nine o'clock last night."

"It sounds perplexing enough."

"The matter certainly presents interesting angles," agreed Pons. "The first question which naturally arises concerns the reason for the salesman's presence in an empty house obviously not his own property."

"And who would be sufficiently acquainted with his movements to be on hand to shoot him when he arrived?"

"Well, I daresay speculation is idle. Let us wait until we reach the scene before we search for conclusions."

At the small station of Sotheby we were met by Inspector Hudson in person. He was a tall, heavily-built man near middle age, with plain, unattractive features. He wore a slight black moustache on his upper lip. He was obviously glad to see us, for he ran toward Pons with outstretched hand as we stepped from the train.

We were soon comfortably seated in Hudson's car, rattling away toward the scene of the murder, which was, it developed, on the farther side of the village.

"We've seen the first reports of the matter," said Pons, tapping the paper he still carried, "but, of course, we can learn little from them. Has the coroner determined when the man was killed?"

"Yes. It was between nine and ten last night--probably closer to ten."

"Indeed. The paper says he was killed with a rifle. Has the calibre been ascertained?"

"Not definitely, Mr. Pons. The size of the hole in Woodall's head indicates either a .22 or a .25."

"The bullet is lodged in the head, then?"

"Yes.

"Well, then, perhaps the man was not shot in the house," ventured Pons.

"Some of us have thought he was shot elsewhere and dragged into the building. But I am not inclined to agree with that theory, for I've examined the grounds minutely, and it is definitely certain that Woodall came alone to the house, walked along the side wall and entered through the back door."

"I take it you went over the footprints?"

"Certainly, Mr. Pons. Besides, there had been rain two nights ago, and the ground under the eaves at the side of the house where Woodall walked was somewhat muddy. Some of this mud can be found adhering to Woodall's boots."

"Excellent, Hudson!" exclaimed Pons, his keen dark eyes twinkling.

"Yet," continued Hudson, "if the man had not been shot elsewhere--and presumably he had not--I find it difficult to determine why the rifle bullet did not go through his head.--But here we are," he added, as the car drew up before a small estate fenced off from the street by a row of white staves.

A constable at the gate saluted us as we passed. We walked up a poorly marked path and entered the house through the front door, Hudson pointing out from the windows as we went from one room to another the path taken by the victim in going around to the back door.

As we entered the kitchen, two, constables who were standing beside the body directed the light of their flashes upon the recumbent form on the floor. The body was that of a middle-aged man, small of build, dressed in shabby clothes. It was difficult to imagine this unprepossessing man--for such he must have been in life--a solicitor of trade. His features were colorless, and must have been even in life. His hair was thin and sandy, and he had an incipient moustache of the same tinge. He lay almost in the center of the room, crumpled on his side, his legs twisted beneath him, his arms flung grotesquely outward.

At Inspector Hudson's order a lamp was now lit, for there was no electricity, and the room immediately came to life. It could now be seen that the back door opened directly on the kitchen, for it was standing ajar, and the light from the lamp threw a feeble glow outward and revealed a path of cobblestones leading away from the door. The utterly bare walls of the room were broken only by the door leading into the inner rooms, and a window looking out on the side of the house. The window, set low in the wall, had been lowered from the top as far as it could go.

The lamp was placed on the floor beside the body, and Pons sank to his knees the better to examine the dead man. He peered intently at the black wound in the dead man's left temple, from which little blood had flowed. Then he examined the dead man's clothes, rummaging through the pockets, but he found nothing save, a small penny box of matches which was two-thirds empty. Having completed this scrutiny, he took up the lamp and, holding it aloft in one hand, crept around and around the body in ever-widening circles. At intervals he placed the lamp on the floor, in order to scrutinize anything that might catch his eye. It was an hour before this process was completed, but at last Pons rose and gave the lamp to one of the constables.

Then he took from his pocket his own flash and vanished into the interior of the house, where we could hear him tramping from room to room. At length he went outside, for we heard the front door open and shut, and presently the light of his flash appeared at the window, where we could see him examining the tracks made by the late Mr. Woodall in approaching the kitchen. At last he himself pushed wider the kitchen door and stepped into the room.

For some moments Pons stood gazing with rapt interest at the lowered window, his, eyes, slightly narrow now, his lips pushing out and in in his customary fashion when deep in thought. Then he turned abruptly to Hudson and inquired, "Who lives next door on this side?"

"The owner--a Mr. William Hendricks."

"And on the other side?"

"Mr. Jonathan Green, one of the merchants who was able to identify the body."

Pons turned this information over in his mind for a moment without comment. Then he continued, "I understand Hendricks discovered the body late yesterday afternoon. How was it that he came to the house?"

"The same question occurred to me," answered Hudson.

"He told us he came to shut the window, which he first then saw to be open."

"Ah, so!" exclaimed Pons. "It was not, of course, usual for this window to be open?"

"No."

"So I thought. I noticed that all the other windows on the ground floor were securely latched, and it struck me as strange that this one should be open. What do you make of this window's being open, Hudson?"

"Why," said Hudson in some surprise, "I assume Woodall opened it."

"Quite so, Hudson," said Pons. "But surely it is obvious that Woodall was shot immediately upon entering the house? For undoubtedly you have seen that the salesman, upon coming into the kitchen, struck a match and that, by the light of this match, the murderer shot him down?"

Hudson sprang forward with an exclamation. Pons extended a match, burned a good two-thirds of the way from the head, which he had evidently found on the floor during his previous examination.

"You intimate that someone waited for Woodall!" asked Hudson in some trepidation.

"Precisely. The fact is self-evident. Someone came to this house and opened the window; this was certainly not Woodall, for he was unfamiliar with the house. Therefore, whoever opened that window knew that Woodall was to come here tonight .

Pons stopped suddenly, still looking intently at the open window, then clapped one hand to his head, and ran swiftly out of the open back door, to the amazement of Inspector Hudson and the constables. In a few moments it was possible to determine Pons' whereabouts, for there came through the window a flash of light behind a hedge some distance from the house. This vanished after five minutes, and there now occurred an interval of fully a quarter of an hour, at the expiration of which Pons suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

"Singular!" he muttered, coming into the room. "Most singular." He flashed a glance at Hudson. "I understand that Woodall was an inhabitant of Aldershot. Do I understand that he made his home there?"

"He didn't have a home of his own, Mr. Pons. But he certainly spent his free time there, staying at a second-rate hotel, The Antler Inn."

"You are aware of no enemies he might have had?"

"Entirely unaware of any. Woodall was a meek, timid man, not likely to arouse enmity. It is always the strong man who has enemies, seldom the weak."

"True," assented Pons. "But surely this must have blocked your search for a motive?"

"The murder seems marked by an entire absence of motive," admitted Hudson. "But if you've discovered anything," he continued, looking sharply at Pons, "I should be glad if you could suggest it to me."

"I think it quite possible to say that the murderer was concealed behind a hedge dividing this property from that of its owner, Mr. Hendricks. It is obvious that he waited there for some time--over an hour, I should say. The distance from here to the hiding place is roughly about fifty yards. I think you'll find upon investigation that a bullet from a .25 calibre rifle will not go through a man's head at fifty yards. While he waited, the murderer dropped a fragment of a note."
Pons took from his pocket a small, triangular scrap of paper, which he spread on his palm for Hudson to see.

"You will observe," Pons went on, "that the piece is so torn as to give us three words--the first word, he, on the topmost line of this scrap, and two words on a following line, nine and ten, from which the connective has been torn, but I daresay we would be quite safe in assuming the missing word to be and. Then, below, we have the first letter of a signature, the letter J. I give you that for what it is worth to you, Hudson; for the present I should like to retain the scrap. Also, I would commend to your attention the clothes of the late Mr. Woodall, and the articles found in them."

"But there were no articles found---only a box of matches."

"That is what I would draw to your notice." Pons turned and looked from the window, where in the grey of the sky white rifts were coming. "Dawn is breaking, Hudson, and I would like to have a few words with Mr. Jonathan Green. I daresay it can be arranged."

"Certainly, Mr. Pons." Hudson turned to one of the constables and instructed him to go to Green's house and rouse him.

It was becoming rapidly lighter as we left the empty house and walked slowly down the path. In the street Pons spoke again.

"You will note that these three houses--Hendricks' two, and Green's--are fenced in as one estate, though hedges divide them."

"Yes," replied Hudson, "I understand that Green bought his house from Hendricks, who built all three. They are similar in structure, too."

We entered Green's property. Just beyond the gate Pons stopped and indicated a short triangular series of footprints leading from the gate and back to it again.

"Let me call to your notice that Woodall first entered here and ventured some distance before discovering his error and retracing his steps."

"The man made a mistake anyone might have made."

"Quite so. But recall the note. One does not appoint a rendezvous at a place with which one of the parties is not familiar. Especially is this true when the rendezvous has been made for night."

"You think there was a rendezvous, then?"

"Surely it is not a coincidence that the fragment of note should mention the hours of nine and ten, between which the coroner has given his verdict that Woodall was killed?"

"But who would write to Woodall?" asked Hudson in a perplexity. "Since you put it that way, you certainly bring forward a new aspect. Unless I've been greatly deceived by Woodall's appearance, I find it difficult to concede that anyone might write him to appoint a rendezvous, obviously meant to be secret."

"A good, pertinent question, Hudson. Who would write Woodall?" He paused and looked intently at Hudson with a twinkle in his eye. "Who would write to a common salesman, and sit patiently waiting to dispose of him--a man who had not an enemy in the world?"

"The problem grows more and more puzzling."

"Indeed, Hudson. Where are your wits?" exclaimed Pons in mild irritation. "After all, the note was not found on Woodall's body."

"Someone might have taken it."

Pons shook his head impatiently. "The soft ground shows you that no one approached the deserted house until Hendricks came to examine into the matter of the open window. Besides, the note had been near the hedge since the night of the murder. Now, Hudson, I leave you to ponder over these things; here we are at the home of Mr. Green and, if I am not in error, there is our man in that small room just ahead."

Jonathan Green was a rather handsome man about forty years of age. Slightly built, clothed in a dark blue dressing-gown, he presented a good appearance as he stood waiting for us in his small library.

"We're sorry to knock you up so early, Mr. Green," said Hudson, "but Mr. Pons here, who is looking into the matter next door, wished to have a few words with you."

"Quite all right," said Green in a mild, pleasant tone of voice. "I'm ready to answer any question you may care to ask."

Pons thanked him with a nod. "Forgive me if I come directly to the matter in hand. In regard to the occurence next door, it rather surprised me that no one had made mention of hearing the shot that killed the poor fellow. Did you, by any chance, hear a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night of the crime?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you get up to look about?"

"No."

"Are shots then so common in this part of the country?"

"In a way, yes," replied Green, smiling at Pons' surprise. "You understand, Mr. Pons, we are at one end of the village out here, and it's not unusual for rabbits from the neighboring fens to come prowling about our small gardens at night. Mr. Hendricks has been especially bothered with the pests--they have been eating his vegetables--and he has got into the habit of rising at night to shoot them. I myself occasionally take a shot at them. The neighborhood would not be startled by a shot or two before midnight."

"How long has this been going on?"

"0h, ever since last spring."

I think we may take it for granted that whoever shot Woodall knew of that," I put in.

Pons assented shortly and turned again to Green. "Might I ask you what you were doing on the night of the murder, Mr. Green?"

"Certainly," answered Green readily. "I was preparing to go out, but I changed my mind and remained at home."

"Was that after the shot?" put in Hudson eagerly.

Green regarded Hudson inscrutably for a moment before he replied, "Yes, after the shot."

"May I ask where you had intended going?" inquired Pons.

"I'd rather not say," returned Green, coloring a little. "Of course if you must know ..."

Pons waved the question good-naturedly aside. "You're not a married man, I see," he said, chuckling.

"No, I'm not," Green admitted. "But it's not my fault."

There was general laughter, only Pons retaining his composure. Pons now produced a pen and paper and extended them to Green.

"Just as a matter of course," he explained, "will you write down and sip a statement that you heard a shot between nine and ten on the night of the crime?"

"Certainly," said Green. He took the paper and pen, and retired to a small desk nearby, where he sat and wrote out the desired statement. He turned and read what he had written: "I hereby depose that I heard a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night of 17 August." He looked up. "Is that satisfactory?"

"Quite," said Pons, and gravely took the extended paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. "I think that will be all, Mr. Green. Thank you for bearing with us."

On the street once more, Pons turned to Hudson. "Now I should like to ask a few questions of Mr. Hendricks."

Hudson nodded. "He must be up by this time. If not, we'll have no difficulty in routing him."

Pons nodded absently.

"By the way, Mr. Pons," Hudson broke in. "if I might ask, why did you want Green to write out a statement?"

"I though that quite obvious, Hudson," replied Pons. "You'll note that the statement contains both the words nine and ten. A brief glance at the fragment of note found behind the hedge has already assured me that its writer and Mr. Jonathan Green are one and the same. The writing is marked by the roman e; the J of the signature is precisely the same; there is the identical pronounced upward slant--all in all, there is only a very slight difference between the two writings."

Hudson pondered this briefly before he protested, "But if Green wrote that note, he can't be our man, for the note could not have been written to himself."

"Certainly not. But you forget that, as you yourself proposed, the murderer might have recovered the note in some fashion. Also, you might have noticed on the wall of Green's library just such a weapon as killed Woodall--a .25 calibre rifle."

Hudson gave vent to an exclamation and slowed his pace perceptibly.

"And to top that, my dear Hudson, it is quite possible that some painful business details between the late Woodall and Mr. Green supplied the motive for this apparently so perplexing puzzle. It would be interesting to build up a hypothetical case along those lines."

"Strikingl" murmured Hudson. "I never considered that angle."

"Obviously," said Pons dryly. "Nor would I suggest that you give much thought to it now."

Inspector Hudson turned a chagrined face to me.

"However," continued Pons imperturbably, "if you're determined to get ahead with your investigation, I would advise that you return to Mr. Green and discover just where he was going the night of the murder."

"You think that important?"

"Extremely so. Indeed, perhaps it is most important. Has it not occurred to you that Green might have been on his way to visit the person to whom he had addressed his note?" Pons waved Hudson away. "Don't think of us, Hudson. We'll find Hendricks easily enough. Do you go ahead and do as you please--question Green; find out where he was going. Don't be too harsh with him."

"You think it will be necessary to be harsh with him?" asked Hudson dubiously.

"Perhaps. In any case, I venture to predict that Mr. Green will prove remarkably reticent about where he had intended going between the hours of nine and ten on the night of the murder--despite his show of good-natured willingness to tell us a few minutes ago."

"I'll go back," said Hudson with determination.

"Follow us to Hendricks' as soon as you can."

Hudson turned and walked rapidly back along the street, while Pons and I turned in at the third of the houses that were so alike. Our coming had not been unobserved, for no sooner had we closed the gate behind us than a tall, striking figure, dressed in hunting clothes, came striding around a comer of the house and bore rapidly down on us. As he came on, I observed that his face was marked by small sharp eyes beneath bristling brows, a full sensuous mouth, and a dark, heavy moustache. He came to a halt ten feet away and glowered at us suspiciously.

"Mr. Hendricks, I presume," ventured Pons.

The fellow nodded.

"I'm looking into the matter next door and there are a few questions I would like to ask you. I am Solar Pons, and this gentleman is my assistant, Dr. Parker."

"Why, certainly," responded Hendricks, softening at once. "Will you come into the house?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly toward the house, Pons and I trailing him. in a few moments we were comfortably seated in Hendricks' den, a replica of Green's library, differing in that where Green displayed books, Hendricks had filled the room with trophies of the hunt.

"Now, Mr. Pons, I'll answer anything you ask if it bears on this matter," said Hendricks.

"I want to know first whether you heard the shot that killed Woodall?"

"I can't say for certain, of course," answered Hendricks slowly, "but I think I did. At least, I heard a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night the fellow was killed."

"You didn't investigate?"

"It's common for some of us to rise at night and shoot rabbits grubbing in our gardens. I have the habit; so has my neighbor, Green. I thought Green was protecting his garden when I heard the shot."

Pons reflected for a moment, Hendricks watching him closely. "I should like to know your reaction on discovering Woodall's body."

"Naturally, I was very much surprised," replied Hendricks without a trace of emotion. "I knew Woodall slightly, of course, but not enough to speak to. I notified the police at once."

"What did you think when you saw the body?"

"Well, I didn't think it was a case of murder; I thought the poor fellow had made away with himself--I understand he'd not been in sound condition financially--but the absence of the weapon left no alternative but that murder had been done."
"Precisely," agreed Pons. He allowed his gaze to linger on Hendricks' new hunting boots. "One more thing--I am told you went over to the house to close the kitchen window; you did not close it. Why?"

Hendricks shrugged his shoulders. "Purely an oversight, I suppose. In the excitement of the discovery, I naturally overlooked it; later on, I realized that it was the best thing I could have done, for it left the scene just as I found it."

"The windows were always kept locked, then. Were the doors also kept locked?"

Hendricks leaned eagerly forward. "There you have it, Mr. Pons. Those doors were always locked. Yet, Woodall didn't break in the back door-so it must have been open when he got there. Question is, who opened it?"

"Who has the key?"

"It's kept in a drawer in my room."

"The drawer is kept locked?"

"So that anyone in the house had access to it?"

"Yes, but there are only three of us. My wife, my man, and myself."

"Very good, Mr. Hendricks. I should like to speak to your wife."

"Very well," answered Hendricks and left the room to get her.

Mrs. Hendricks was a slight woman, somewhat younger than her husband, and singularly attractive. My first impression, which I felt Pons shared, was that Mrs. Hendricks had been weeping; for this seemed evident, despite the patent efforts she had made to disguise the fact. She greeted us in a light voice, which impressed me favorably.

Before Pons could begin to question her, there was a sharp rapping at the front door, and Hendricks departed to answer it. As he left the room, I noticed that his wife followed him with her eyes--and I was struck with her gaze, for it was venomous with hatred.

"Mrs. Hendricks," Pons spoke quickly, "do you realize that you have unintentionally caused the death of a man?"

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly, her face paling so that the artificial color flamed on her cheeks.

"You unlocked the back door of the empty house so that someone could keep an appointment with you," began Pons, only to be interrupted by the woman.

She sprang up in uncontrollable agitation and came over to Pons. She put her hand on his arm, and looked at him, wide-eyed. "How much do you know?" she demanded.

"Everything," answered Pons, looking sternly at her.

For a moment there was silence. She swayed a little, and I thought briefly that she might faint, but she did not. "My God!" she breathed. "Surely you can't blame me?" She stepped back. Then, with an abrupt gesture, she allowed her kimono to slip down over her shoulder, exposing her skin, upon which were ugly, dark welts.

There was an exclamation from Pons. I felt a sudden wave of pity for Mrs. Hendricks.

"I have to live with him," she said passionately. "I hate him--he beats me." She stopped and looked at Pons steadily for a moment, struggling to regain her composure_ "You know all--about the note?"

"Yes," said Pons in a low voice, for we could hear the footsteps of Hendricks and Hudson approaching along the passage.

"I lost it," she went on hurriedly. "I know he found it. And his temper--I knew that might happen. But I called Jon in time!" She stopped and hastily rearranged her kimono.

"I think that will be all," said Pons kindly, as the two men entered the room. "Please return to your room, Mrs. Hendricks."

The woman got up obediently and, without a glance at her husband, who had shot a quick, suspicious look at her, left the room. Pons turned to Inspector Hudson.

"Well?" he asked, "did Green tell you?"

Hudson shook his head glumly. "Not a word. And got angry, too."

Pons smiled. "But I shall have something of interest for you soon, Hudson. Will you be so good as to call two of your constables?"

"Certainly, Mr. Pons." He was as surprised as I at Pons' jest, and he could not help betraying his perplexity as he left the room to call the constables from the empty house next door.

"I hope you're getting on, Mr. Pons," said Hendricks. "This business is awkward for me."

"I shall have the matter cleared up before long," answered Pons.

At this moment Hudson and his two men entered.

"Ah, Hudson," murmured Pons. "Please step forward. You may arrest Mr. Hendricks and charge him with the wilful murder of Mr. Woodall night before last."

There was a hoarse bellow of rage from Hendricks but constables were upon him before he could reach Pons, and in a few moments he was securely manacled between them.

"It would be well if we removed from Mr. Hendricks that part of the evidence he has not destroyed," continued Pons, as if nothing had taken place. "Some inconvenience will no doubt be caused, but in the circumstances it would be better to remove the prisoner's right boot, on the sole of which you will find a fragment of flint pressed into the hard leather; comparison with the print beside the hedge will prove that it was made with this boot."

Only after Hendricks was taken away did Pons consent to expound the case to Hudson, who came bristling with questions to take us back to the station.

"Let us start at the beginning," began Pons. "You will remember, I called your attention to the articles found in the dead man's pockets, and to his clothes?"

Hudson nodded.

"Very good. I did so because it was perfectly obvious that his entire lack of the smallest necessities, his threadbare clothing, supplied the answer to the primary question of why Woodall was in the empty house. He was there for shelter; having no means and a little pride, perhaps lacking friends and, knowing this for an empty house, he planned to spend the night here. He entered as we know by way of the back door. In the kitchen he struck a match to look around him and was shot down by a good marksman at fifty yards--from the hedge next to his home.

"Since the purpose of the salesman in coming to the house must certainly have been kept secret, it follows then that the note written by Mr. Green, a fragment of which we found near the hedge, where Hendricks carelessly dropped it, could not possibly have been addressed to Woodall. After our conversation with Green, I was satisfied that he had not written a note to lure someone to the house to be killed, as at first it appeared. Instead, a new element entered into the matter. I had now to determine who opened the back door and the kitchen window. The key to the door was kept in Hendricks' drawer, where he, his wife, or his man had access to it.

"Thus, by simple elimination, it became evident that Mrs. Hendricks had opened the door; therefore, it followed that Green's note had been addressed to her, for surely Green was not arranging a tryst with Hendricks or his man. In turn, it follows that there was something between Mrs. Hendricks and Mr. Green. However, if Mrs. Hendricks had, on receiving Green's note appointing the empty house as a safe place to meet--I daresay they had met there before--gone over and unlocked the back door, so that Green could enter and wait for her, surely she did not open the kitchen window, for this would have attracted her husband's attention.

"It was evident that, owing to the habits of Mr. Hendricks--you remember the he of the note, a pronoun I take to refer to Hendricks--no definite hour of meeting could be appointed; hence the rendezvous was made for some time between nine and ten o'clock that night. Now, if neither Mrs. Hendricks nor Woodall opened that window, who did? Could it be anyone but the man who intended to take his chance shooting through it without breaking the pane? Hardly, I daresay. This man was Hendricks, for he had found the note Mrs. Hendricks lost, and in his jealous fury, he determined to put Green definitely out of the way.

"But he failed to reckon on his wife who, when she missed the note, called Green to warn him away. Hendricks, knowing nothing of this, concealed himself behind his hedge, and, when he saw a figure enter the grounds and pass into the house, he prepared to shoot. And at the moment when Woodall struck a match to look about him at the place he had chosen to spend the night in, Hendricks fired and killed him. That is all there is to the matter."

Pons paused briefly before he added, "By the way, Hudson, if you want to do me a favor, let me suggest that you keep the relations of Mrs. Hendricks and Green as much out of the picture as possible."

To this Hudson unhesitatingly agreed.

There was an epilogue to this curious affair. Hudson was as good as his word, for there was no mention of Mrs. Hendricks and Green in the prosecution, and much trouble was saved by Hendricks' confession, for he made no mention of his motive in killing the salesman.

A year after the death of Hendricks, Pons received in the mail a clipping telling briefly of the wedding of Mr. Jonathan Green and the widow of the late Mr. William Hendricks. There was no signature, nor any indication of who might have sent it, but Pons never had a doubt of the sender. Nor had I.