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But though he pursued the most diligent inquiries, Tarling failed to discover any human being who had either recognised Lyne or observed the car arrive or depart. The hall porter of the flats, on being interviewed, was very emphatic that nobody had come into the building by the main entrance between the hours of ten and half-past.
The pile on the left grew, and the pile on the right became smaller, until there was only one book a diary newer than the others which had been fastened by two brass locks, but had been opened by the Scotland Yard experts. Tarling took up this volume and turned the leaves. As he had expected, it was the current diary that on which Thornton Lyne had been engaged at the time of his murder.
"It was protected with heavy bars," said Tarling, "so nobody could have escaped that way." "I examined the wound," Milburgh went on, nodding his agreement with Tarling's description, "and knew that it was fatal. I do not think, however, that Mr. Thornton Lyne was dead at this time.
For all our men were very very merry, And all our men were drinking: There were two men of mine, Three men of thine, And three that belonged to old Sir Thom o' Lyne; As they went to the ferry, they were very very merry, And all our men were drinking. CAPTAIN BLADE. Ha, ha, boys, another catch. Such are the words, which are somewhat altered and amplified in the text.
It is a disgraceful habit, and really is one of my few vices," he admitted. "I threw it down when I turned out the radiator." Tarling smiled. "Won't you sit down?" said Milburgh, seating himself in the least comfortable of the chairs. "You see," his smile was apologetic as he waved his hand to the table, "the work is frightfully heavy now that poor Mr. Lyne is dead.
He is met by Milburgh, who plays his trump card of confession and endeavours to switch the young man on to the solution which Milburgh had prepared. Lyne refuses, there is a row, and is desperation Milburgh shoots Thornton Lyne." Tarling shook his head. He mused a while, then: "It's queer," he said. The door opened and a police officer came in.
"In the statement I made to you, sir," he turned to Tarling, "I said that that pistol had not been found by me; and indeed, I professed the profoundest ignorance of its existence. I regret to confess to you that I was telling an untruth. I did find the pistol; I put it in my pocket and I took it home. It is probable that with that pistol Mr. Lyne was fatally shot." Tarling nodded.
Lyne was due, to let him in. You asked me just now, sir," he turned to Tarling, "whether I had my overcoat on, and I can state most emphatically that I had not. I was going back to the flat with the intention of collecting my overcoat, when I saw a number of people walking about the mews behind the block.
Here's a Sword would doe a man's head good to be cut of with it; cures all rhumes, all Catharres, megroomes, verteegoes: presto, be gone! Ley. You must not carry it, Harlem: you are a pretty fellow and lop the lyne of life well, but weake to Baltazar.
Tarling read the passages again and again until he almost had them by heart. Then he closed the book and locked it away in his drawer. He sat with his chin on his hand for half an hour. He was piecing together the puzzle which Thornton Lyne had made so much more simple. The mystery was clearing up.
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