CHAPTER VI. A SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT.

Dowker walked along Piccadilly thinking deeply about the curious aspect the case was now assuming. As far as he could make out, Myles Desmond was the last person who saw Miss Sarschine alive, and he having gone out a few minutes after the interview, it seemed as though he had followed her. The only thing to be done was to see Ellersby, and as he was stopping at the Guelph Hotel Dowker went along in that direction. He followed the same path as he surmised the dead woman must have taken, but what puzzled him was the reason she had for going into Jermyn Street.

"After she found out Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe," he muttered, "the most obvious course would be for her to go home, but she evidently did not intend to do so. I wonder if she walked or took a cab? Walked, I suppose. Let me see, it was a foggy night and she got lost, that is the explanation. But then this man or woman she met; it must have been a friend as she would hardly have stopped talking to a stranger, unless indeed she asked the way. Lord," ejaculated Mr. Dowker, suddenly stopping short, "fancy if this murder turns out to be the work of some tramp, but no, that's bosh, tramps wouldn't use a poisoned dagger--unless they took the one she carried. Hang it! it's the most perplexing case I was ever in."

He had by this time arrived at the Guelph Hotel and sent up his card to Mr. Ellersby. The waiter soon returned with the information that Mr. Ellersby was in and would see him, so he went upstairs and was shown into a sitting-room. At one end near the window sat Spencer Ellersby in a comfortable armchair smoking a pipe and reading a French novel. A remarkably unpromising-looking bulldog lay at his feet and arose with an ominous growl as Dowker entered the room.

"Lie down Pickles," said Ellersby to this amiable animal, who obeyed the command in a sulky manner. "Well, Mr. Dowker, what do you want to see me about?"

"That case, sir," said Dowker, taking a seat.

"Oh, of course," replied Ellersby, shrugging his shoulders, "I guessed as much. I thought I'd done with the whole affair at the inquest."

"As far as it then went, sir," said the detective, quickly; "but I've found out a lot since that time."

"Ah, indeed! The name of the assassin?"

"Not yet, sir--I'll do that later on--but the name of the victim."

"Yes?--and it is----?"

"Lena Sarschine."

"Never heard of her. Who is she, what is she, and where does she live?"

"She was Lord Calliston's mistress," replied Dowker. "I think that answers all the other questions."

"Hum! A cottage in St. John's Wood--gilded vice, and all the rest of it. And what was she doing in Jermyn Street that night?"

"I don't know, sir. That's one of the things I've got to discover."

"Well, what else have you found out, and how did you manage to acquire your information?"

"That was easy enough," said? Dowker confidentially. "I'll just tell you all, sir, for I want you to give me some information."

"Delighted--if I can."

"As to the finding out, sir. The hat worn by the dead 'un had a ticket inside, showing it was made by Madame Rêne, of Regent Street. I went there, and found out it had been sold to a woman called Lydia Fenny, of Cleopatra Villa, St. John's Wood. I, thinking Lydia Fenny was the victim, went there and found that she was alive, and had lent the hat to her mistress last Monday night."

"Curious thing for a maid to lend her mistress clothes," said Ellersby, smiling. "It's generally the reverse."

"I think she did it for a disguise, sir," explained Dowker, "because Miss Sarschine went to Lord Calliston's chambers in Piccadilly."

"What for?"

"To get information concerning his elopement with Lady Balscombe."

"The deuce!" said Ellersby in astonishment. "This is becoming interesting."

"It will be still more so before it's done. I found out from Lydia Fenny that Miss Sarschine discovered her lover was about to elope with Lady Balscombe, so went to his chambers to prevent it She arrived too late, as Lord Calliston had gone down to Shoreham by the ten minutes past nine train from London Bridge Station. Instead of Lord Calliston she found Mr. Desmond, his cousin, and I suppose he told her she was too late, for there was a row royal, and she left the chambers at twelve o'clock or thereabouts. Desmond followed shortly afterwards, and that was the last seen of her alive, as far as I know."

"Why? Didn't Miss Sarschine return home when she discovered Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe?"

"I can't tell you, sir; nor what took her to Jermyn Street, unless she got lost in the fog, or there was another man in the case."

"Eh? Nonsense! what other man could there have been?"

"Well," said Dowker slowly, "there was Mr. Desmond."

"Pshaw!" said Ellersby, springing to his feet. "What rubbish! I've known Myles Desmond all my life, and he's not the fellow to commit such a crime!"

"Yet I understand before you found the body you met Mr. Desmond coming up St. James's Street?"

Spencer Ellersby swung round in a rage.

"Confound you!" he said in an angry tone, "do you want me to give evidence implicating my friend?"

Dowker did not lose his temper.

"No; but I want to know what took place between you on that night."

"Simply nothing. He was in a hurry, and seemed annoyed at my stopping him, but that was only natural on such a beastly night. I asked him to call on me here, and also asked where Calliston was; he told me yachting and then he went off. Nothing more took place."

"Humph!" said Dowker thoughtfully. "It was curious he should have been there at the time."

"I don't see it at all. If you ask him, I've no doubt he'll give you a good account of himself. Besides, he had no motive in murdering Miss Sarschine--he is in love with Miss Penfold."

"I don't say he deliberately murdered her," said Dowker quietly, "but there might have been an accident. You see this?" taking the Malay kriss out of his pocket and unwraping the papers.

"Yes--a dagger. Is that the----" said Ellersby, recoiling.

"No; but I shrewdly suspect it's the neighbour to it. Down at Cleopatra Villa there were a lot of these sort of things hanging against the wall, arranged in a kind of pattern. One side of the pattern was incomplete, and I found out from Miss Fenny that Miss Sarschine had taken one of the daggers, with a view to trying it on Calliston if he did not give up his design of eloping. She was mad with rage or she would never have thought of such an idea. Well--cannot you guess what follows?--she has the dagger with her--doubtless shows it to Myles Desmond during her stormy interview with him, and leaves the house in a rage. He follows her to try and take such a dangerous weapon from her--meets her in Jermyn Street--struggles to get it, and in the scuffle wounds herself; consequently she dies, and Myles Desmond keeps quiet lest he should be accused of murder."

"Seems possible enough," said Ellersby, resuming his seat, "but I doubt its truth. However, the only thing to be done is to see Desmond, and find out what took place at Calliston's rooms. But tell me, what are you going to do with that other dagger?"

"I want to find out if it's poisoned," said Dowker, handling it gingerly. "If it is, it will show that the other weapon was the one with which the crime was committed."

"Will you allow me to look at it?" said Ellersby, stretching out his hand.

"Certainly," replied the detective, and rising to his feet, he walked across to Ellersby to give him the dagger. Unluckily, however, just as he was handing it to him he stepped on Pickles, who with a growl of rage made a bite at his leg. In the sudden start Dowker let go the dagger, which fell upon Pickles' back, inflicting a slight wound.

The detective gave a yell as the bulldog gripped him, but Ellersby pulled Pickles off, and Dowker, hobbling to a chair, sat down to nurse his wounded leg. It was not much hurt, however, as Pickles had got a mouthful of trousers instead of flesh.

Alarmed as Dowker had been by the accident, he was not more alarmed than Ellersby, who sprang to his feet with an oath and rang the bell sharply.

"Damn it!" he said furiously, "if that dagger is poisoned the dog will die! How could you be such a fool?"

"You'd be the same, sir, if a devil of a dog bit you," said Dowker sulkily, not at all displeased at having the question of the dagger tested at once. "I'm very sorry."

"Sorry be hanged!" said Ellersby savagely. "I wouldn't lose that dog for a hundred pounds. Here," to the waiter that entered, "send for a doctor at once--don't lose time, confound you!" at which the astonished waiter vanished promptly.

Meanwhile all this time Pickles was lying down trying to lick his wound, and evidently wondering what all the fuss was about. Dowker watched him intently, and in a short time saw the dog was becoming drowsy. Ellersby picked up the dagger and was about to hurl it furiously back to Dowker, when the detective jumped up in alarm.

"For God's sake, don't!" he cried; "I believe it is poisoned--look!"

Ellersby looked, and saw Pickles trying to rise to his feet. He evidently knew something was wrong with him, for he commenced to whine, and a glaze came over his eyes. His master knelt down beside him and dried the blood off the wound with his handkerchief, but it was too late. The dog opened his jaws once or twice, tried to rise to his feet, staggered, and fell over on his side, to all appearances dead. On seeing this, Ellersby jumped to his feet and began to rage.

"The devil take you and your case!" he said furiously, "you've killed my dog."

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Dowker, crossing and picking up the dagger, "it was an accident."

"An expensive accident for me," said Ellersby, bitterly; "at all events it proves the dagger was poisoned."

"Yes," said Dowker in a delighted tone, "so the crime must have been committed with the other weapon, for if one was poisoned, it's only common sense to assume the other was."

He had apparently quite forgotten the loss sustained by Ellersby, for there was no doubt the bulldog was quite dead.

That gentleman looked at him in disgust.

"Oh, go to the devil," he said, irritably, "and thank your stars I don't make you pay for this."

Dowker murmured something about an accident, then, slipping the fatal dagger, once more covered in paper, into his pocket, he took his departure. On his way down he met the doctor coming up, and once outside, he was beside himself with joy at having proved the kriss to be poisonous.

"And now," he said, "I'll call and see Mr. Desmond."