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Updated: June 15, 2025
Tarling brindled, then laughed. "Oh, yes, I take an interest," he admitted, "but it is very natural." "Why natural?" asked Whiteside. "Because," replied Tarling deliberately, "Miss Rider is going to be my wife." "Oh!" said Whiteside in blank amazement, and had nothing more to say. The warrant for Milburgh's arrest was waiting for them, and placed in the hands of Whiteside for execution.
"And all the proof of Milburgh's guilt gone up in smoke, eh?" he said. "I think I know what those books contained a little clockwork detonator and a few pounds of thermite to burn up all the clues to the Daffodil Murder!" All that remained of the once stately, if restricted, premises of Messrs. Dashwood and Solomon was a gaunt-looking front wall, blackened by the fire.
You have been complaining to me for a month past," he said speaking with deliberation, "about small sums of money being missing from the cashier's office." It was a bold thing to say, and in many ways a rash thing. He was dependent for the success of his hastily-formed plan, not only upon Milburgh's guilt, but upon Milburgh's willingness to confess his guilt.
"Now, my good man," he said severely, "you ought not to stop gentlemen in the street and talk that kind of nonsense. I have never met you before in my life. My name is the Reverend Josiah Jennings." "Your name is Milburgh," said the other. "Yes, that's it, Milburgh. He used to talk about you! That lovely man here!" He clutched the clergyman's sleeve and Milburgh's face went a shade paler.
Ling gave an imitation of Mr. Milburgh's smile. "And then he wrote as you see." Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into vacancy, then he turned on his elbow and lifted the cup of tea which his servant had brought him. "What of Face-White-and-Weak Man, Ling?" he asked in the vernacular. "You saw him?" "I saw him, master," said the Chinaman gravely. "He is a man without a heaven."
He searched his pocket-book and brought out a photograph of a thumb-print considerably enlarged. "Compare them!" cried Whiteside in triumph. "Line for line, ridge for ridge, and furrow for furrow, it is Milburgh's thumb-print and Milburgh is my man!" He took up his coat and slipped it on. "Where are you going?"
Tarling recalled the fact that he had been sent for by his dead relative to inquire into Milburgh's mode of living and that Milburgh was under suspicion of having robbed the firm. Suppose Milburgh had committed the crime? Suppose, to hide his defalcations, he had shot his employer dead?
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