nothing of Mr. Batters’ will. I do not pretend to be able to explain the feeling, but there it was. I should, perhaps, in fairness add that a queer little incident which coincided with the arrival of the will, seemed to point, whimsically enough, in the same direction.
The document came on a Thursday morning. When I entered the room which I used as an office, I found that four communications were awaiting me. The postman had brought them all. The boy I call—to shed dignity on him and on myself—a clerk, had set them out upon the table. Three letters in ordinary envelopes. The fourth was an awkward, bulky, coarse brown paper parcel. On it was the doll which the woman had given me on the night of April 3, in the lonely street near Tower Hill.
I had forgotten its existence, I took it for granted that its presence on that spot was owing to Crumper’s sense of humour. I called to him.
“Crumper!” His head appeared at the door. “What do you mean by putting this here?” He stared, as if he did not catch my meaning. There are moments when Crumper finds it convenient to be dull. “You understand me well enough; what do you mean by putting this doll upon my parcel?”
He still looked as if he did not understand. But Crumper had a capacity of being able to handle his face as if it were an indiarubber mask, on which he is able to produce any expression at will.
“Doll, sir? I don’t know anything about a doll, sir.” He came into the room, pointing with his thumb, “Do you mean that, sir? It wasn’t there when I left the room just now; to that I’ll take my affidavit.”
It is no use arguing with Crumper. The depth of his innocence is not to be easily plumbed. I sent him back to his den; knocked the doll with a fillip of my finger backwards on to the table; opened the brown paper parcel.
