CHAPTER XXXIV

FREYBERGER remained at his post all that night.

It was the bitterest experience he had ever known.

Without food, without fire, without light, half worn out from his struggle with Hellier and depressed by the result, the chance of the capture of Klein reduced to the barest possible, he still remained on guard, watchful and ready to spring.

With the full light of day he left the place, bearing with him the only scrap of evidence that could be any use, that is to say, the small valise containing the suit of clothes and the jewel cases and the knife sheath.

He had some food at an early morning coffee-stall in the High Street, and then he proceeded on his way to the Yard.

The great Kalihari Desert is not a more desolate place than London in the early morning.

There are no cabs, there are no omnibuses; there are no shops, no people. You hear that which is the voice of a city’s desolation, the echo of your own footsteps. The High Street of Kensington was empty from end to end, experiencing the hiatus in traffic which comes between the passing of the last market gardener’s cart and the passage of the first cab.

Freyberger, with the valise in his hand, had made up his mind to walk to his destination, when an early hansom turned out of one of the side streets, and, getting in, he told the driver to take him to the Yard.

Here he delivered up the valise and the jewel cases, directed that a man should be sent to St Ann’s Road to take charge of the house and make inquiries, also that Sir Anthony Gyde’s tailor should be discovered and the clothes submitted to him.

Then he returned to his lodgings, south of the water, to obtain a few hours’ sleep.

“Well, Freyberger,” said the chief to the detective, when at four o’clock that afternoon they found themselves together, “what have you to report?”

Freyberger reported everything that we know as having taken place in St Ann’s Road.

Had you been listening to his report, you would have admitted that if he were jealous he was also honest, for he minimized nothing, nor did he magnify anything or attempt to cast the blame for his failure on Hellier.

He just told the truth. Freyberger loved the truth, not from any exalted reason, but simply because it was the tool by which he earned his living and made his reputation. The golden measuring rod by which he measured statements, the crucible from which he distilled deductions, the glass mask which he wore tied over his face to prevent himself being poisoned by the fumes of misapprehension.

“You have missed him this time,” said the chief; “but never mind, you are driving him back, you are getting him slowly into a corner. Another move may mean checkmate.”

“If I had taken him yesterday,” replied Freyberger, “it would have meant a life saved—who knows? Perhaps several lives saved. He is loose now, like a wild beast, and the question we have to consider is this. If he is seriously alarmed, if he suspects that we know of his monomania, may fear overcome his madness and cause him to withhold his hand?”

“What is your opinion on that point?” asked the chief. “You have considerable knowledge of the psychology of crime.”

“Well, sir, it is my belief that, if he is really alarmed, fear will cause him to withhold his hand—for awhile.

“But fear, though checking, will not stay his desire to kill. He will at first be careful, then, as time goes on and he gets farther away from this murder, his caution will slacken and the desire become unchained.”

“You think fear is a check upon lunacy?”

“Not much. But I conceive the mind of this man to be essentially not the mind of a lunatic.

“If I might use a simile, I would liken this man’s mind to a country peopled with evil persons, and possessing one town peopled with devils—that is the lunatic spot.”

“You almost speak as though you believe lunacy to be possession by devils.”

“Absolutely, I believe that,” replied Freyberger. “Firstly, from a prolonged study of lunacy; secondly, because my Bible bids me believe it. I am a Protestant.”

“You have heard the report we have had about those clothes you brought here this morning in the valise?”

“No.”

“Smalpage is, or should we say was, Sir Anthony Gyde’s tailor. He identifies the measurements as being those of Sir Anthony Gyde, and his chief cutter identifies the garments as his work, though, of course, he cannot say for certain for whom he cut them.”

“That is evidence enough,” replied Freyberger; “the clothes are Gyde’s.”

“Yes, I think so. Then, again, Smith and Wilkinson, the jewellers, identify the jewel cases as having been supplied to Sir Anthony; the bank identify them as similar to those withdrawn by Sir Anthony.”

“That is evidence enough,” again replied Freyberger. “The things are Gyde’s; the evidence is, unhappily, of little use at present. It will help to hang our man when we catch him. There is nothing for us now to do but wait.”