finger of his left hand. Mr. Barlow is also short, thin, and
fair, but wears a wig, a board, and spectacles, and always wears a glove
on his left hand. I have seen the handwriting of both these gentlemen,
and should say that it would be difficult to distinguish one from the
other."

"That's good enough for me," said the inspector. "Give me his address,
and I'll have Miss Curtis released at once."

* * * * *

The same night Leonard Wolfe was arrested at Eltham, in the very act of
burying in his garden a large and powerful compressed-air rifle. He was
never brought to trial, however, for he had in his pocket a more
portable weapon--a large-bore Derringer pistol--with which he managed
to terminate an exceedingly ill-spent life.

"And, after all," was Thorndyke's comment, when he heard of the event,
"he had his uses. He has relieved society of two very bad men, and he
has given us a most instructive case. He has shown us how a clever and
ingenious criminal may take endless pains to mislead and delude the
police, and yet, by inattention to trivial details, may scatter clues
broadcast. We can only say to the criminal class generally, in both
respects, 'Go thou and do likewise.'"

VIII

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEEP SEA

The Whitechapel Road, though redeemed by scattered relics of a more
picturesque past from the utter desolation of its neighbour the
Commercial Road, is hardly a gay thoroughfare. Especially at its eastern
end, where its sordid modernity seems to reflect the colourless lives of
its inhabitants, does its grey and dreary length depress the spirits of
the wayfarer. But the longest and dullest road can be made delightful by
sprightly discourse seasoned with wit and wisdom, and so it was that, as
I walked westward by the side of my friend John Thorndyke, the long,
monotonous road seemed all too short.

We had been to the London Hospital to see a remarkable case of
acromegaly, and, as we returned, we discussed this curious affection,
and the allied condition of gigantism, in all their bearings, from the
origin of the "Gibson chin" to the physique of Og, King of Bashan.

"It would have been interesting," Thorndyke remarked as we passed up
Aldgate High Street, "to have put one's finger into His Majesty's
pituitary fossa--after his decease, of course. By the way, here is
Harrow Alley; you remember Defoe's description of the dead-cart waiting
out here, and the ghastly processio