A NEW CLUE TO AN OLD CRIME

It was exactly half-past ten on Tuesday morning when I sat down on the rough wooden bench in my workshop with a little gasp of relief and exhaustion.  Before me, on the lead slab, was a small pile of dark brown powder, which an innocent stranger would in all probability have taken for finely ground coffee.  It was not coffee, however; it was the fruit of four days and nights of about the most unremitting toil that any human being has ever accomplished.  Unless I was wrong—­utterly and hopelessly wrong—­I had enough of the new explosive in front of me to blow this particular bit of marsh and salting into the middle of next week.

I leaned forward, and picking up a fistful, allowed it to trickle slowly through my fingers.  The stuff was quite safe to handle; that was one of its beauties.  I could have put a lighted match to it or thrown it on the fire without the faintest risk; the only possible method of releasing its appalling power being the explosion of a few grains of gunpowder or dynamite in its immediate vicinity.  I had no intention of allowing that interesting event to occur until I had made certain necessary preparations.

I was still contemplating my handiwork with a sort of fatigued pride, when a sudden sound outside attracted my attention.  Getting up and looking through the shed window, I discovered a telegraph-boy standing by the hut, apparently engaged in hunting for the bell.

“All right, sonny,” I called out.  “Bring it along here.”

I walked to the door, and the next minute I was being handed an envelope addressed to me at the Tilbury Post-Office in Joyce’s handwriting.

“It came the last post yesterday,” explained the lad.  “We couldn’t let you have it until this morning because there wasn’t any one to send.”

“Well, sit down a moment, Charles,” I said; “and I’ll just see if there’s any answer.”

He seated himself on the bench, staring round at everything with obvious interest.  With a pleasant feeling of anticipation I slit open the envelope and pulled out its contents.

“CHELSEA,

“Monday.

“DEAREST JAMES,

“It looks rather nice written—­doesn’t it!  I am coming down tomorrow by the train which gets into Tilbury at 2.15.  I shall walk across to the Betty and sit there peacefully till you turn up.  Whatever stage the work is at, don’t be later than 7.30.  I shall have supper ready by then—­and it will be a supper worth eating.  My poor darling, you must be simply starved.  I’ve lots to tell you, James, but it will keep till tomorrow.

“With all my love,

“JOYCE.”

I read this through (it was so like Joyce I could almost fancy I heard her speaking), and then I turned to the telegraph-boy, who was still occupied in taking stock of his surroundings.

“There’s no answer, thank you, Charles,” I said.  “How much do I owe you?”