There is here, moral, if not legal, evidence, that the murder was committed by the Indians.

Whether the man personating a mechanic was, or was not, an accomplice in the crime, it is impossible to say.  That he could have committed the murder alone, seems beyond the limits of probability.  Acting by himself, he could hardly have smothered Mr. Ablewhite—­who was the taller and stronger man of the two—­without a struggle taking place, or a cry being heard.  A servant girl, sleeping in the next room, heard nothing.  The landlord, sleeping in the room below, heard nothing.  The whole evidence points to the inference that more than one man was concerned in this crime—­and the circumstances, I repeat, morally justify the conclusion that the Indians committed it.

I have only to add, that the verdict at the Coroner’s Inquest was Wilful Murder against some person, or persons, unknown.  Mr. Ablewhite’s family have offered a reward, and no effort has been left untried to discover the guilty persons.  The man dressed like a mechanic has eluded all inquiries.  The Indians have been traced.  As to the prospect of ultimately capturing these last, I shall have a word to say to you on that head, when I reach the end of the present Report.

In the meanwhile, having now written all that is needful on the subject of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s death, I may pass next to the narrative of his proceedings before, during, and after the time, when you and he met at the late Lady Verinder’s house.

III

With regard to the subject now in hand, I may state, at the outset, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s life had two sides to it.

The side turned up to the public view, presented the spectacle of a gentleman, possessed of considerable reputation as a speaker at charitable meetings, and endowed with administrative abilities, which he placed at the disposal of various Benevolent Societies, mostly of the female sort.  The side kept hidden from the general notice, exhibited this same gentleman in the totally different character of a man of pleasure, with a villa in the suburbs which was not taken in his own name, and with a lady in the villa, who was not taken in his own name, either.

My investigations in the villa have shown me several fine pictures and statues; furniture tastefully selected, and admirably made; and a conservatory of the rarest flowers, the match of which it would not be easy to find in all London.  My investigation of the lady has resulted in the discovery of jewels which are worthy to take rank with the flowers, and of carriages and horses which have (deservedly) produced a sensation in the Park, among persons well qualified to judge of the build of the one, and the breed of the others.

All this is, so far, common enough.  The villa and the lady are such familiar objects in London life, that I ought to apologise for introducing them to notice.  But what is not common and not familiar (in my experience), is that all these fine things were not only ordered, but paid for.  The pictures, the statues, the flowers, the jewels, the carriages, and the horses—­inquiry proved, to my indescribable astonishment, that not a sixpence of debt was owing on any of them.  As to the villa, it had been bought, out and out, and settled on the lady.