Detection by Gaslight by Douglas G. Greene Read Free Book Online Page A

always rely on a return in kind.
    It was with a message of a useful sort that Hewitt one day dropped into Vine Street police-station and asked for a particular inspector, who was not in. Hewitt sat and wrote a note, and by way of making conversation said to the inspector on duty, “Anything very startling this way to-day?”
    â€œNothing very startling, perhaps, as yet,” the inspector replied. “But one of our chaps picked up rather an odd customer a little while ago. Lunatic of some sort, I should think—in fact, I’ve sent for the doctor to see him. He’s a foreigner—a Frenchman, I believe. He seemed horribly weak and faint; but the oddest thing occurred when one of the men, thinking he might be hungry, brought in some bread. He went into fits of terror at the sight of it, and wouldn’t be pacified till they took it away again.”
    â€œThat was strange.”
    â€œOdd, wasn’t it? And he was hungry too. They brought him some more a little while after, and he didn’t funk it a bit,—pitched into it, in fact, like anything, and ate it all with some cold beef. It’s the way with some lunatics—never the same five minutes together. He keeps crying like a baby, and saying things we can’t understand. As it happens, there’s nobody in just now who speaks French.”
    â€œI speak French,” Hewitt replied. “Shall I try him?”
    â€œCertainly, if you will. He’s in the men’s room below. They’ve been making him as comfortable as possible by the fire until the doctor comes. He’s a long time. I expect he’s got a case on.”
    Hewitt found his way to the large mess-room, where three or four policemen in their shirt-sleeves were curiously regarding a young man of very disordered appearance who sat on a chair by the fire. He was pale, and exhibited marks of bruises on his face, while over one eye was a scarcely healed cut. His figure was small and slight, his coat was torn, and he sat with a certain indefinite air of shivering suffering. He started and looked round apprehensively as Hewitt entered. Hewitt bowed smilingly, wished him good-day, speaking in French, and asked him if he spoke the language.
    The man looked up with a dull expression, and after an effort or two, as of one who stutters, burst out with, “Je le nie!”
    â€œThat’s strange,” Hewitt observed to the men. “I ask him if he speaks French, and he says he denies it—speaking in French.”
    â€œHe’s been saying that very often, sir,” one of the men answered, “as well as other things we can’t make anything of.”
    Hewitt placed his hand kindly on the man’s shoulder and asked his name. The reply was for a little while an inarticulate, gurgle, presently merging into a meaningless medley of words and syllables— “Qu’est ce qu’ — il n’ a —Leystar Squarr— sacré nom —not spik it— quel chemin —sank you ver’ mosh— je le nie! je le nie!’ He paused, stared, and then, as though realizing his helplessness, he burst into tears.
    â€œHe’s been a-cryin’ two or three times,” said the man who had spoken before. “He was a-cryin’ when we found him.”
    Several more attempts Hewitt made to communicate with the man, but though he seemed to comprehend what was meant, he replied with nothing but meaningless gibber, and finally gave up the attempt, and, leaning against the side of the fireplace, buried his head in the bend of his arm.
    Then the doctor arrived and made his examination. While it was in progress Hewitt took aside the policeman who had been speaking before and questioned him further. He had himself found the Frenchman in a dull back street by Golden Square, where the man was standing helpless and trembling, apparently quite bewildered and very weak. He had brought him in, without having been able to learn