His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.
I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to awaken you, he said, with a smile.
I rubbed my eyes. And what news? I asked. How have you succeeded?
Better than I expected, he said, and I think, he added, tapping his note-book, I owe much to YOU.
Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have remembered that in his moods Hemlock Jones was reticence itself. I told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed.
Later, when I arose to go, he looked at me playfully. If you were a married man, he said, I would advise you not to go home until you had brushed your sleeve. There are a few short brown sealskin hairs on the inner side of your forearm, just where they would have adhered if your arm had encircled a seal-skin coat with some pressure!
For once you are at fault, I said triumphantly; the hair is my own, as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the hairdressers, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron.
He frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he embraced me warmly a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the flaps of my pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the cuff with his deft fingers. Come again soon! he said, clapping me on the back.
At any and all times, I said enthusiastically; I only ask ten minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always, as you know.
It is indeed, he said, with his impenetrable smile.
Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One afternoon, when nearing my own home, I met him in one of his favorite disguises, a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white hat, carrying a tambourine. Of course to others the disguise was perfect, although it was known to myself, and I passed him according to an old understanding between us without the slightest recognition, trusting to a later explanation. At another time, as I was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the East End, I saw him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan, looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my joy I ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned.
Two days later I received a note appointing a meeting at his lodgings that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable occurrence of my life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock Jones! I will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still throb with the recollection of it.
I found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance a look which I may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and deductive ratiocination from which all that was human, tender, or sympathetic was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy algebraic symbol! Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive ears.
After I had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and even placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a revolver and, presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones:
Hand over that cigar case!
Even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and involuntary. I havent got it, I said.
He smiled bitterly, and threw down his revolver. I expected that reply! Then let me now confront you with something more awful, more deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal weapon, the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt! He drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book.
But surely, I gasped, you are joking! You could not for a moment believe
Silence! Sit down! I obeyed.
You have condemned yourself, he went on pitilessly. Condemned yourself on my processes, processes familiar to you, applauded by you, accepted by you for years! We will go back to the time when you first saw the cigar case. Your expressions, he said in cold, deliberate tones, consulting his paper, were, How beautiful! I wish it were mine. This was your first step in crime and my first indication. From I WISH it were mine to I WILL have it mine, and the mere detail, HOW CAN I make it mine? the advance was obvious. Silence! But as in my methods it was necessary that there should be an overwhelming inducement to the crime, that unholy admiration of yours for the mere trinket itself was not enough. You are a smoker of cigars.