“Our friend seems to have had surprisingly little regard for comfort,” Thorndyke remarked.  “Think of spending the winter evenings in damp boots by a gas fire!”

“Perhaps the opium-pipe compensated,” said I; “or he may have gone to bed early.”

“But he did not.  The night porter used to see the light in his rooms at one o’clock in the morning.  In the sitting-room, too, you remember.  But he seems to have been in the habit of reading in bed—­or perhaps smoking—­for here is a candlestick with the remains of a whole dynasty of candles in it.  As there is gas in the room, he couldn’t have wanted the candle to undress by.  He used stearine candles, too; not the common paraffin variety.  I wonder why he went to that expense.”

“Perhaps the smell of the paraffin candle spoiled the aroma of the opium,” I suggested; to which Thorndyke made no reply but continued his inspection of the room, pulling out the drawer of the washstand—­which contained a single, worn-out nail-brush—­and even picking up and examining the dry and cracked cake of soap in the dish.

“He seems to have had a fair amount of clothing,” said Thorndyke, who was now going through the chest of drawers, “though, by the look of it, he didn’t change very often, and the shirts have a rather yellow and faded appearance.  I wonder how he managed about his washing.  Why, here are a couple of pairs of boots in the drawer with his clothes!  And here is his stock of candles.  Quite a large box—­though nearly empty now—­of stearine candles, six to the pound.”

He closed the drawer and cast another inquiring look round the room.

“I think we have seen all now, Jervis,” he said, “unless there is anything more that you would like to look into?”

“No,” I replied.  “I have seen all that I wanted to see and more than I am able to attach any meaning to.  So we may as well go.”

I blew out the lamp and put it in my overcoat pocket, and, when we had turned out the gas in both rooms, we took our departure.

As we approached the lodge, we found our stout friend in the act of retiring in favour of the night porter.  Thorndyke handed him the key of the chambers, and, after a few sympathetic inquiries, about his health—­which was obviously very indifferent—­said: 

“Let me see; you were one of the witnesses to Mr. Blackmore’s will, I think?”

“I was, sir,” replied the porter.

“And I believe you read the document through before you witnessed the signature?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you read it aloud?”

“Aloud, sir!  Lor’ bless you, no, sir!  Why should I?  The other witness read it, and, of course, Mr. Blackmore knew what was in it, seeing that it was in his own handwriting.  What should I want to read it aloud for?”

“No, of course you wouldn’t want to.  By the way, I have been wondering how Mr. Blackmore managed about his washing.”