Next morning Barton entered his sitting-room in very high spirits, and took up his letters. He had written to Maitland the night before, saying little but, “Come home at once. Margaret is found. She is going to be my wife. You can’t come too quickly, if you wish to hear of something very much to your advantage.” A load was off his mind, and he felt as Romeo did just before the bad news about Juliet reached him.

In this buoyant disposition, Barton opened his letters. The first was in a hand he knew very well—that of a man who had been his fellow-student in Paris and Vienna, and who was now a prosperous young physician. The epistle ran thus:

“Dear Barton.—I’m off to the West of Ireland, for a fortnight People are pretty fit, as the season has not run far. Most of my patients have not yet systematically overeaten themselves. I want you to do something for me. Martin & Wright, the lawyers, have a queer little bit of medical jurisprudence, about which young Wright, who was at Oriel in our time, asked my opinion. I recommended him to see you, as it is more in your line; and my line will presently be attached to that eminent general practitioner, ‘The Blue Doctor.’ May he prosper with the Galway salmon!

“Thine,

“Alfred Franks.”

“Lucky beggar!” thought Barton to himself, but he was too happy to envy even a man who had a fortnight of salmon-fishing before him.

The next letter he opened was in a blue envelope, with the stamp of Messrs. Martin & Wright. The brief and and formal note which it contained requested Dr. Barton to call, that very day if possible, at the chambers of the respectable firm, on “business of great importance.”

“What in the world can they want?” thought Barton. “Nobody can have left me any money. Besides, Franks says it is a point in medical jurisprudence. That sounds attractive. I’ll go down after breakfast.”

He walked along the sunny embankment, and that bright prospect of houses, trees, and ships have never seemed so beautiful. In an hour he was in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and had shaken hands with young Wright, whom he knew; had been introduced to old Wright, a somewhat stately man of business, and had taken his seat in the chair sacred to clients.

“Dr. Barton,” said old Mr. Wright, solemnly, “you are, I think, the author of this book?”

He handed to Barton a copy of his own volume, in its gray paper cover, “Les Tatouages Étude MÉdico-LÉgale”.

“Certainly,” said Barton. “I wrote it when I was in Paris I had plenty of chances of studying tattooing in the military hospitals.”

“I have not read it myself,” said old Mr. Wright, “because I am not acquainted with the French language; but my son tells me it is a work of great learning.”

Barton could only bow, and mutter that he was glad Mr. Wright liked it. Why he should like it, or what the old gentleman wanted, he could not even imagine.

“We are at present engaged in a very curious case, Dr. Barton,” went on the lawyer, “in which we think your special studies may assist us. The position is this: Nearly eight months ago a client of ours died, a Mr. Richard Johnson, of Linkheaton, in the North. You must excuse me if I seem to be troubling you with a long story?”

Barton mentioned that he was delighted, and added, “Not at all,” in the vague modern dialect.

“This Mr. Richard Johnson, then, was a somewhat singular character. He was what is called a ‘statesman’ in the North. He had a small property of about four hundred acres, on the marches, as they say, or boarders of the Earl of Birkenhead’s lands. Here he lived almost alone, and in a very quiet way. There was not even a village near him, and there were few persons of his own position in life, because his little place was almost embedded, if I may say so, in Lord Birkenhead’s country, which is pastoral. You are with me, so far?”

“Perfectly,” said Barton.

“This Mr. Johnson, then, lived quite alone, with an old housekeeper, dead since his decease, and with one son, called Richard, like himself. The young man was of an adventurous character, a ne’er-do-weel in fact; and about twenty years ago he left Linkheaton, after a violent quarrel with his father. It was understood that he had run away to sea. Two years later he returned; there was another quarrel, and the old man turned him out, vowing that he would never forgive him. But, not long after that, a very rich deposit of coal—a very rich deposit,” said Mr. Wright, with the air of a man tasting most excellent claret—“was discovered on this very estate of Linkheaton. Old Johnson, without much exertion on his part, and simply through the payment of royalties by the company that worked the coal, became exceedingly opulent, in what you call most affluent circumstances.”

Here Mr. Wright paused, as if to see whether Barton was beginning to understand the point of the narrative, which, it is needless to remark, he was not. There is no marked connection between coal mines, however lucrative, and “Les Tatouages, Étude MÉdico-LÉgale.”

“In spite of his wealth, Mr. Johnson in no way changed his habits. He invested his money carefully, under our advice, and he became, as I said, an extremely warm man. But he continued to live in the old farmhouse, and did not, in any way, court society. To tell the truth, except Lord Birkenhead, who is our client, I never knew anyone who was at all intimate with the old man. Lord Birkenhead had a respect for him, as a neighbor and a person of the old-fashioned type. Yes,” Mr. Wright added, seeing that his son was going to speak, “and, as you were about to say, Tom, they were brought together by a common misfortune. Like old Mr. Johnson, his lordship has a son who is very, very—unsatisfactory. His lordship has not seen the Honorable Mr. Thomas Cranley for many years; and in that lonely country the two boys had been companions in wild amusements, long before. He is very unsatisfactory, the Honorable Thomas Cranley;” and Mr. Wright sighed heavily, in sympathy with a client so noble and so afflicted.

“I know the beast,” said Barton, without reflecting.

Mr. Wright looked at him in amazement and horror. “The beast!” A son of Lord Birkenhead’s called “The beast!”

“To return to our case, Dr. Barton,” he went on severely, with some stress laid on the doctor. “Mr. Johnson died, leaving, by a will made on his death-bed, all that he possessed to his son Richard, or, in case of his decease, to the heirs of his body lawfully begotten. From that day to this we have hunted everywhere for the man. We have traced him all over the world; we have heard of him in Australia, Burmah, Guiana, Smyrna, but at Smyrna we lose sight of him. This advertisement,” said the old gentleman, taking up the outside sheet of the Times, and folding it so as to bring the second column into view, “remained for more than seven months unanswered, or only answered by impostors and idiots.”

He tapped his finger on the place as he handed the paper to Barton, who read aloud:

“Linkheaton.—If Richard Johnson, of Linkheaton, Durham, last heard of at Smyrna in 1875, will apply to Messrs. Martin and Wright, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he will hear of something very greatly to his advantage. His father died, forgiving him. A reward of £1,000 will be paid to anyone producing Richard Johnson, or proving his decease.”

“As a mixture of business with the home affections,” said old Mr. Wright proudly (for the advertisement was of his own composition), “I think that leaves little ta be desired.”

“It is admirable,” said Barton—“admirable; but may I ask——”

“Where the tattooing comes in?” said Mr. Wright. “I am just approaching that. The only person from whom we received any reliable information about Richard Johnson was an old ship-mate of his, a wandering, adventurous character, now, I believe, in Paraguay, where we cannot readily communicate with him. According to his account, Johnson was an ordinary seafaring man, tanned, and wearing a black beard, but easily to be recognized for an excellent reason. He was tattooed almost all over his whole body.”

Barton nearly leaped out of his chair, the client’s chair, so sudden a light flashed on him.

“What is the matter, Dr. Barton! I thought I should interest you; but you seem quite excited.”

“I really beg your pardon,” said Barton. “It was automatic, I think; besides, I am extremely interested in tattooing.”

“Then, sir, it is a pity you could not have seen Johnson. He appears, from what our informant tells us, to have been a most remarkable specimen. He had been tattooed by Australian blacks, by Burmese, by Arabs, and, in a peculiar blue tint and to a particular pattern, by the Dyacks of Borneo. We have here a rough chart, drawn by our informant, of his principal decorations.”

Here the lawyer solemnly unrolled a great sheet of drawing-paper, on which was rudely outlined the naked figure of a man, filled up, on the breast, thighs, and arms, with ornamental designs.

The guess which made Barton leap up had not been mistaken: he recognized the tattooings he had seen on the dead body of Dicky Shields.

This confirmation of what he had conjectured, however, did not draw any exclamation or mark of excitement from Barton, who was now on his guard.

“This is highly interesting,” he said, as he examined the diagram; “and I am sure, Mr. Wright, that it should not be difficult to recognize a claimant with such remarkable peculiarities.”

“No, sir; it is easy enough, and we have been able to dismiss scores of sham Richard Johnsons. But one man presented himself the day before yesterday—a rough sailor fellow, who went straight to the point; asked if the man we wanted had any private marks; said he knew what they were, and showed us his wrist, which exactly, as far as we could verify the design, corresponded to that drawing.”

“Well,” asked Barton, controlling his excitement by a great effort, “what did you do with him?”

“We said to him that it would be necessary to take the advice of an expert before we could make any movement; and, though he told us things about old Johnson and Linkheaton, which it seemed almost impossible that anyone but the right man could have known, we put him off till we had seen you, and could make an appointment for you to examine the tattooings. They must be dealt with first, before any other identification.”

“I suppose you have made some other necessary inquiries? Did he say why he was so late in answering the advertisement? It has been out for several months.”

“Yes, and that is rather in his favor,” said Mr. Wright. “If he had been an impostor on the lookout he would probably have come to us long ago. But he has just returned from the Cape, where he had been out of the way of newspapers, and he did not see the advertisement till he came across it three or four days ago.”

“Very well,” said Barton. “Make an appointment with the man for any time to-morrow, and I will be with you.”

As he said this he looked very hard and significantly at the younger Mr. Wright.

“Very good, sir; thank you. Shall we say at noon tomorrow?”

“With pleasure,” answered Barton, still with his eye on the younger partner.

He then said good-by, and was joined, as he had hoped, in the outer office by young Wright.

“You had something to say to me?” asked the junior member of the firm.

“Several things,” said Barton, smiling. “And first, would you mind finding out whether the coast is clear—whether any one is watching for me?”

“Watching for you! What do you mean?”

“Just take a look round the square, and tell me whether any suspicious character is about.”

Young Wright, much puzzled, put on his hat, and stood lighting a cigarette on the outer steps.

“Not a soul in sight but lawyers’ clerks,” he reported.

“Very well; just tell your father that, as it is a fine morning, you are taking a turn with me.”

Barton’s friend did as he wished, and presently the pair had some serious conversation.

“I’ll do exactly as you suggest, and explain to my father,” said the young lawyer as they separated.

“Thanks; it is so much easier for you to explain than for a stranger like myself,” said Barton, and strolled westward by way of Co vent Garden.

At the noted establishment of Messrs. Aminadab, theatrical costumiers, Barton stopped, went in, was engaged some time with the Messrs. Aminadab, and finally had a cab called for him, and drove home with a pretty bulky parcel.

At five minutes to twelve on the following day, a tall, burly, mahogany-colored mariner, attired, for the occasion, in a frock-coat and hat, appeared in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He seemed to be but ill acquainted with those coasts, and mooned about for some minutes before he reached the door of Messrs. Wright Then he rang, the door was opened, and he was admitted into the presence of the partners.

“I have come, gentlemen, in answer to your letter,” he said with a Northern burr, bowing awkwardly, and checking a disposition to salute by touching his forelock.

His eyes wandered round the room, where he saw no one but the partners, with whom he was already acquainted, and a foreign-looking gentleman—a gentleman with hay-colored hair, a soft hat, spectacles, and a tow-colored beard. He had a mild, short-sighted expression, a pasty complexion, and the air of one who smoked too much.

“Good morning, Mr.—h’m—Mr. Johnson,” said old Mr. Wright. “As we told you, sir, we have, as a necessary preliminary to the inquiry, requested Professor Lieblein to step in and inspect—h’m—the personal marks of which you spoke. Professor Lieblein, of Bonn, is a great authority on these matters—author of ‘Die Tattuirung,’ a very learned work, I am told.”

Thus introduced, the Professor bowed.

“Glad to meet you, sir,” said the sailor-man gruffly, “or any gentleman as really knows what’s what.”

“You have been a great traveller, sir?” said the learned Professor, whose Teutonic accent it is superfluous to reproduce. “You have in many lands travelled? So!”

“Yes, sir; I have seen the world.”

“And you are much tattooed: it is to me very interesting. You have by many races been decorated?”

“Most niggers have had a turn at me, sir!”

“How happy you are to have had such experiences! Now, the Burmese—ah! have you any little Burmese marks?”

“Yes, sir; from the elbow to the shoulder,” replied the seafaring man. “Saving your presence, I’ll strip to the buff.”

“The buff! What is that? Oh, thank you, sir,” this was in reply to young Mr. Wright “The naked body! why, buff! ‘Buff,’ the abstract word, the actual stuff, the very wesen of man unclothed. ‘Buffer,’ the concrete man, in the ‘buff,’ in the flesh; it is sehr intÉressant.”

While the learned Professor muttered these metaphysical and philological reflections, the seaman was stripping himself to the waist.

“That’s the Burmese style, sir,” he said, pointing to his shoulders and upper arm.

These limbs were tattooed in a beautiful soft blue; the pattern was a series of diminishing squares, from which long narrow triangles ran down to the elbow-joints.

“Sehr schÔn, sehr schÔn,” exclaimed the delighted Professor. “It is very hubsch, very pretty, very well. We cannot now decorate, we Germans. Ach, it is mournful!” and he sighed. “And now, sir, have you to show me any moko? A little moko would be very instructive.”

“Moko? Rather! The Maori pattern, you mean; the New Zealand dodge? Just look between my shoulders,” and the seaman turned a broad bare back, whereon were designs of curious involuted spirals.

“That is right, that is right,” whispered the Professor. “Moko, schlange, serpent-marks, so they call it in their tongue. Better moko, on an European man, have I never seen. You observe,” he remarked to the elder Mr. Wright, waving his hand as he followed the tattooed lines—“you observe the serpentine curves? Very beautiful.”

“Extremely interesting,” said Mr. Wright, who, being no anthropologist, seemed nervous and uncomfortable.

“Corresponds, too, with the marks in the picture,” he added, comparing the sketch of the original Shields with the body of the claimant.

“Are you satisfied now, governor?” asked the sailor.

“One little moment. Have you on the Red Sea coast been? Have you been at Suakim? Have you any Arab markings?”

“Oh, yes; here you are!” and the voyager pointed to his breast.

The Professor inspected, with unconcealed delight, some small tattooings of irregular form.

“It is, it is,” he cried, “the wasm, the sharat,* the Semitic tribal mark, the mark with which the Arab tribes brand their cattle! Of old time they did tattoo it on their bodies. The learned Herr Professor Robertson Smith, in his leedle book, do you know what he calls that very mark, my dear sir?”

“Not I,” said the sailor; “I’m no scholar.”

“He says it was—I do not say he is right,” cried the Professor, in a loud voice, pointing a finger at his victim’s breast—“he says it was the mark of cain!”

The sailor, beneath his mahogany tan, turned a livid white, and grasped at a bookcase by which he stood.

“What do you mean?” he cried, through his chattering teeth; “what do you mean with your damned Hebrew-Dutch and your mark of Cain? The mark’s all right! A Hadendowa woman did it in Suakim years ago. Ain’t it on that chart of yours?”

“Certainly, good sir; it is,” answered the Professor. “Why do you so agitate yourself? The proof is complete!” he added, still pointing at the sailor’s breast.

“Then I’ll put on my togs, with your leave: it’s none so warm!” grumbled the man.

He had so far completed his dressing that he was in his waistcoat, and was just looking round for his coat.

“Stop!” said the Professor. “Hold Mr. Johnson’s coat for a moment!”

This was to young Wright, who laid his hands on the garment in question.

“You must be tired, sir,” said the Professor, in a very soft voice. “May I offer you a leedle cigarette?”

He drew from his pocket a silver cigarette-case, and, in a thoroughly English accent, he went on:

“I have waited long to give you back your cigarette-case, which you left at your club, Mr. Thomas Cranley!”

The sailor’s eye fell on it. He dashed the silver box violently to the ground, and trampled on it, then he made one rush at his coat.

“Hold it, hold it!” cried Barton, laying aside his Teutonic accent—“hold it: there’s a revolver in the pocket!”

But there was no need to struggle for the coat.

The sailor had suddenly staggered and fallen, a crumpled but not unconscious mass, on the floor.

“Call in the police!” said Barton. “They’ll have no difficulty in taking him.”

“This is the man against whom you have the warrant,” he went on, as young Wright opened the door and admitted two policemen. “I charge the Honorable Thomas Cranley with murder!”

The officers lifted the fallen man.

“Let him be,” said Barton. “He has collapsed. Lay him on the floor: he’s better so. He needs a turn of my profession: his heart’s weak. Bring some brandy.”

Young Wright went for the spirits, while the frightened old lawyer kept murmuring:

“The Honorable Thomas Cranley was always very unsatisfactory!”

It had been explained to the old gentleman that an impostor would be unmasked, and a criminal arrested; but he had not been informed that the culprit was the son of his great client, Lord Birkenhead.

Barton picked up the cigarette-case, and as he, for the first time, examined its interior, some broken glass fell out and tinkled on the floor.