The porter evidently regarded this question with some disfavour, for he replied only with an interrogative grunt.  It was, in fact, rather an odd question.

“Did you get it done for him,” Thorndyke pursued.

“No, certainly not, sir.  He got it done for himself.  The laundry people used to deliver the basket here at the lodge, and Mr. Blackmore used to take it in with him when he happened to be passing.”

“It was not delivered at his chambers, then?”

“No, sir.  Mr. Blackmore was a very studious gentleman and he didn’t like to be disturbed.  A studious gentleman would naturally not like to be disturbed.”

Thorndyke cordially agreed with these very proper sentiments and finally wished the porter “good night.”  We passed out through the gateway into Wych Street, and, turning our faces eastward towards the Temple, set forth in silence, each thinking his own thoughts.  What Thorndyke’s were I cannot tell, though I have no doubt that he was busily engaged in piecing together all that he had seen and heard and considering its possible application to the case in hand.

As to me, my mind was in a whirl of confusion.  All this searching and examining seemed to be the mere flogging of a dead horse.  The will was obviously a perfectly valid and regular will and there was an end of the matter.  At least, so it seemed to me.  But clearly that was not Thorndyke’s view.  His investigations were certainly not purposeless; and, as I walked by his side trying to conceive some purpose in his actions, I only became more and more mystified as I recalled them one by one, and perhaps most of all by the cryptic questions that I had just heard him address to the equally mystified porter.

Chapter VIII

The Track Chart

As Thorndyke and I arrived at the main gateway of the Temple and he swung round into the narrow lane, it was suddenly borne in on me that I had made no arrangements for the night.  Events had followed one another so continuously and each had been so engrossing that I had lost sight of what I may call my domestic affairs.

“We seem to be heading for your chambers, Thorndyke,” I ventured to remark.  “It is a little late to think of it, but I have not yet settled where I am to put up to-night.”

“My dear fellow,” he replied, “you are going to put up in your own bedroom which has been waiting in readiness for you ever since you left it.  Polton went up and inspected it as soon as you arrived.  I take it that you will consider my chambers yours until such time as you may join the benedictine majority and set up a home for yourself.”

“That is very handsome of you,” said I.  “You didn’t mention that the billet you offered was a resident appointment.”

“Rooms and commons included,” said Thorndyke; and when I protested that I should at least contribute to the costs of living he impatiently waved the suggestion away.  We were still arguing the question when we reached our chambers—­as I will now call them—­and a diversion was occasioned by my taking the lamp from my pocket and placing it on the table.