Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril

Chapter Five.
Certain Curious Facts

Both men searched eagerly through the drawers of the writing-table to see if the dead man had left another envelope addressed to his friend. Two of the drawers were locked, but these they opened with the key which they found upon poor Jerrold’s watch-chain which he was wearing.

Some private papers, accounts and ledgers, were in the drawers, but the envelope of which they were in search they failed to discover.

It seemed evident that Jerome Jerrold had written the envelope in which he had enclosed a letter, but, on reflection, he had torn it up. Though the crumpled fragments of the envelope were there, yet the letter – whatever it might have been – was missing. And their careful examination of the waste-paper basket revealed nothing, whereupon Sir Houston Bird remarked —

“He may, of course, have changed his mind, and burned it, after all!”

“Perhaps he did,” Jack agreed. “But I wonder what could have been the message he wished to give me a year after his death? Why not now?”

“People who take their own lives sometimes have curious hallucinations. I have known many. Suicide is a fascinating, if very grim study.”

“Then you really think this is a case of suicide?”

“I can, I fear, give no opinion until after the post-mortem, Mr Sainsbury,” was Sir Houston’s guarded reply, his face grave and thoughtful.

“But it is all so strange, so remarkable,” exclaimed the younger man. “Why did he tell me that he’d been shot, if he hadn’t?”

“Because to you, his most intimate friend, he perhaps, as you suggested, wished to conceal the fact that he had been guilty of the cowardly action of taking his own life,” was the reply.

“It is a mystery – a profound mystery,” declared Jack Sainsbury. “Jerome dined with Mr Trustram, and the latter came back here with him. Meanwhile, Mr Lewin Rodwell was very anxious concerning him. Why? Was Rodwell a friend of Jerome’s? Do you happen to know that?”

“I happen to know to the contrary,” declared the great pathologist. “Only a week ago we met at Charing Cross Hospital, and some chance remark brought up Rodwell’s name, when Jerrold burst forth angrily, and declared most emphatically that the man who posed as such a patriotic Englishman would, one day, be unmasked and exposed in his true colours. In confidence, he made an allegation that Lewin Rodwell’s real name was Ludwig Heitzman, and that he was born in Hanover. He had become a naturalised Englishman ten years ago in Glasgow, and had, by deed-poll, changed his name to Lewin Rodwell.”

Jack Sainsbury stared the speaker full in the face.

Lewin Rodwell, the great patriot who, since the outbreak of war, had been in the forefront of every charitable movement, who had been belauded by the Press, and to whom the Prime Minister had referred in the most eulogistic terms in the House of Commons, was a German!

“That’s utterly impossible,” exclaimed Jack. “He is one of the directors of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, in whose office I am. I know Mr Rodwell well. There’s no trace whatever of German birth about him.”

“Jerrold assured me that his real name was Heitzman, that he had been born of poor parents, and had been educated by an English shipping-agent in Hamburg, who had adopted him and sent him to England. On the Englishman’s death he inherited about two thousand pounds, which he made the nucleus of his present fortune.”

“That’s all news to me,” said Jack reflectively; “and yet – ”

“What? Do you know something regarding Rodwell then?” inquired Sir Houston quickly.

“No,” he replied. “Nothing very extraordinary. What you have just told me surprises me greatly.”

“Just as it surprised me. Yet, surely, his case is only one of many similar. Thousands of Germans have come here, and become naturalised Englishmen.”

“A German who becomes a naturalised Englishman is a traitor to his own country, while he poses as our friend. I contend that we have no use for traitors of any sort in England to-day,” declared Jack vehemently; both men being still engaged in searching the dead man’s room to discover the message which it appeared had been his intention to leave after his death. They had carefully examined the grate, but found no trace of any burnt paper. Yet, from the fact that a piece of red sealing-wax and a burnt taper lay upon the writing-table, it appeared that something had been recently sealed, though the torn envelope bore no seal.

If an envelope had been sealed, then where was it?

“We shall, no doubt, be able to establish the truth of Jerrold’s allegation by reference to the register of naturalised Germans kept at the Home Office,” Sir Houston said at last.

Jack was silent for a few moments, and then answered:

“That, I fear, may be a little difficult. Jerrold has often told me how it had been discovered that it was a favourite dodge of Germans, after becoming naturalised and changing their names by deed-poll, to adopt a second and rather similar name, in order to avoid any inquiry along the channel which you have just suggested. As an example, if Ludwig Heitzman became naturalised, then it is more than probable that when he changed his name by deed-poll he did not adopt the name of Lewin Rodwell, but something rather near it.”

“Very likely,” was the great doctor’s remark.

Suddenly Jack Sainsbury paused and, facing his companion, said:

“Look here, Sir Houston. In this tragic affair I believe there’s something more than suicide. That’s my firm opinion. Reflect for one moment, and follow my suspicions. Poor Jerome, in addition to his profession, has for some years been unofficially assisting the Intelligence Department of the War Office. He was one of the keenest and cleverest investigators in England. He scented acts of espionage as a terrier does a rat, and by his efforts half a dozen, or so, dangerous spies have been arrested and punished. In a modest way I have been his assistant, and have helped to watch and follow suspected persons. Together, we have traced cases of petrol-running to the coast, investigated night-signalling in the southern counties, and other things, therefore I happen to know that he was keen on the work. Curious that he never told me of his grave suspicions regarding Mr Rodwell.”

“Perhaps he had a reason for concealing them from you,” was the other’s reply.

“But he was always so frank and open with me, because I believe that he trusted in my discretion to say nothing.”

“Probably he had not verified his facts, and intended to do so before revealing the truth to you.”

“Yes, he was most careful always to obtain corroboration of everything, before accepting it,” was Jack’s reply. “But certainly what you have just told me arouses a grave suspicion.”

“Of what?”

“Well – that our poor friend, having gained knowledge of Lewin Rodwell’s birth and antecedents, may, in all probability, have probed further into his past and – ”

“Into his present, I think more likely,” exclaimed the great doctor. “Ah! I quite see the line of your argument,” he added quickly. “You suggest that Rodwell may have discovered that Jerrold knew the truth, and that, in consequence, death came suddenly and unexpectedly – eh?”

Jack Sainsbury nodded in the affirmative. “But surely Trustram, who was one of Jerrold’s most intimate friends, could not have had any hand in foul play! He was the last man who saw him alive. No,” he went on. “My own experience shows me that poor Jerrold has died of poisoning, and as nobody has been here, or could have escaped from the room, it must have been administered by his own hand.”

“But do you not discern the motive?” cried Sainsbury. “Rodwell has risen to a position of great affluence and notoriety. He is a bosom friend of Cabinet Ministers, and to him many secrets of State are confided. He, and his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, play golf with Ministers, and the name of Lewin Rodwell is everywhere to-day one to conjure with. He has, since the war, risen to be one of the most patriotic Englishmen – a man whose unselfish efforts are praised and admired from one end of Great Britain to another. Surely he would have become desperate if he had the least suspicion that Jerome Jerrold had discovered the truth, and intended to unmask him – as he had openly declared to you.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Sir Houston replied dubiously. “If there were any traces of foul play I should at once be of the same opinion. But you see they do not exist.”

“Whether there are traces, or whether there are none, nothing will shake my firm opinion, and that is that poor Jerome has been assassinated, and the motive of the crime is what I have already suggested.”

“Very well; we shall clear it up at the post-mortem,” was the doctor’s reply, while at that moment Thomasson re-entered, followed by a police-officer in plain clothes and two constables in uniform.

On their entry, Sainsbury introduced Sir Houston Bird, and told them his own name and that of his dead friend.

Then the officer of the local branch of the Criminal Investigation Department sat down at the dead man’s writing-table and began to write in his note-book the story of the strange affair, as dictated by Jack.

Sir Houston also made a statement, this being followed by the man Thomasson, who detailed his master’s movements prior to his death – as far as he knew them.

His master, he declared, had seemed in excellent spirits all day. He had seen patients in the morning, had lunched frugally at home, and had gone down to Guy’s in the car to see the wounded, as was his daily round. At six he had returned, dressed, and gone forth in a taxi to meet his friend, Mr Trustram of the Admiralty. They having dined together returned, and afterwards Mr Trustram had left and the doctor, smoking his pipe, had retired to his room to write. Nothing further was heard, Thomasson said, till the arrival of Mr Sainsbury, when the door of the room was found locked.

“You heard no one enter the house – no sounds whatever?” asked the detective inspector, Rees by name, a tall, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man, with rather curly hair.

“I didn’t hear a sound,” was the servant’s reply. “The others were all out, and, as a matter of fact, I was in the waiting-room, just inside the door, looking at the newspapers on the table. So I should have heard anyone go up or down the stairs.”

Inspector Rees submitted Thomasson to a very searching cross-examination, but it was quite evident to all in the room that he knew nothing more than what he had already told. He and his wife had been in Dr Jerrold’s service for eight years. His wife, until her death, a year ago, had acted as cook-housekeeper.

“Did you ever know of Mr Lewin Rodwell visiting the doctor?” asked Sir Houston.

“Never, as far as I know, sir. He, of course, might have come to consult him professionally when I’ve been out, and the maid has sometimes opened the door and admitted patients.”

“Have you ever heard Mr Rodwell’s name?”

“Only on the telephone to-night – and of course very often in the papers,” replied the man.

“Your master was very intimate with Mr Trustram?” inquired the detective.

“Oh yes. They first met about three months ago, and after that Mr Trustram came here several times weekly. The doctor went to stay at his country cottage near Dorking for the week-end, about a fortnight ago.”

“Did you ever discover the reason of those conferences?” Jack Sainsbury asked. “I mean, did you ever overhear any of their conversations?”

“Sometimes, sir. But not very often,” was Thomasson’s discreet reply. “They frequently discussed the war, and the spy-peril, in which – as you know – the doctor was actively interesting himself.”

Upon Jack Sainsbury’s countenance a faint smile appeared. He now discerned the reason of the visits of that Admiralty official to the man who had been so suddenly and mysteriously stricken down.

He exchanged glances with Sir Houston, who, a moment before, had been searching a cigar cabinet which had hitherto escaped their notice.

At Rees’s suggestion, Jack Sainsbury went to the telephone and rang up Charles Trustram, to whom he briefly related the story of the tragic discovery.

Within twenty minutes Trustram arrived, and, to the detective, told the story of the events of the evening: how they had met by appointment at Prince’s Restaurant at half-past seven, had dined together, and then he had accompanied the doctor back to Wimpole Street about half-past nine, where they had sat smoking and chatting.

“Jerrold seemed in quite good spirits over the result of an inquiry he had been making regarding a secret store of petrol established by the enemy’s emissaries somewhere on the Sussex coast,” Mr Trustram explained. “He had, he told me, disclosed it to the Intelligence Department, and they were taking secret measures to watch a certain barn wherein the petrol was concealed, and to arrest those implicated in the affair. He also expressed some anxiety regarding Mr Sainsbury, saying that he wished he could see him to-night.” Then, turning to Jack, he added: “At his request I rang up your flat at Hampstead, but you were not in.”

“Why did he wish to see me?”

“Ah! that I don’t know. He told me nothing,” was the Admiralty official’s reply. “While I was sitting here with him I was rung up three times – twice from my office, and once by a well-known man I had met for the first time that afternoon – Mr Lewin Rodwell.”

At mention of Rodwell all present became instantly interested.

“How did Mr Rodwell know that you were here?” inquired the detective quickly. “That’s a mystery. I did not tell him.”

“He might have rung up your house, and your servant may possibly have told him that you were dining with Jerrold,” Sir Houston suggested.

“That may be so. I will ask my man.”

“What did Mr Rodwell want?” Rees asked.

“He told me that he had that evening been in consultation with his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, and that, between them they had resolved to commence a propaganda for the internment of all alien enemies – naturalised as well as unnaturalised – and he asked whether I would meet them at the club to-morrow afternoon to discuss the scheme. To this I readily consented. When I returned to this room I found the doctor in the act of sealing an envelope. After he had finished he gave the envelope to me, saying ‘This will be safer in your care than in mine, my dear Trustram. Will you please keep it in your safe?’ I consented, of course, and as I took it I saw that it was a private letter addressed to Mr Sainsbury, with instructions that it was not to be opened till a year after his death.”

“Then you have the letter!” cried Jack excitedly.

“Yes, I have it at home,” replied Mr Trustram; who, proceeding, said: “At first I was greatly surprised at being given such a letter, and chaffingly remarked that I hoped he wouldn’t die just yet; whereat he laughed, refilled his pipe and declared that life was, after all, very uncertain. ‘I want my friend Sainsbury to know something – but not before a year after I’m gone. You understand, Trustram. I give you this, and you, on your part, will give me your word of honour that, whatever occurs, you will safely guard it, and not allow it to be opened till a year has elapsed after my death.’ He seemed to have suddenly grown serious, and I confess I was not a little surprised at his curious change of manner.”

“Did it strike you at all that he might be contemplating suicide?”

“No, not in the least. Such an idea never entered my head. I regarded his action just as that of a man who makes his will – that’s all. I took the envelope and, about five minutes later, left him, as I had been called down to the Admiralty upon an urgent matter.”

“A quarter of an hour afterwards Mr Sainsbury called and we could not get into the room,” Thomasson remarked. “That is all we know.”

Chapter Six.
Reveals the Victim

Three days had passed.

The coroner’s inquiry had been duly held into the death of Dr Jerome Jerrold, and medical evidence, including that of the deceased’s friend, Sir Houston Bird, had been called. This evidence showed conclusively that Sir Houston had been right in his conjecture, from the convulsed appearance of the body and other signs, that poor Jerrold had died of poisoning by strychnine. Therefore the proceedings were brief, and a verdict was returned of “Suicide while temporarily insane.”

No mention was made of the sealed letter left with Mr Trustram, for in a case of that distressing nature the coroner is always ready to make the inquiry as short as possible.

Jack Sainsbury, who had been granted leave by Mr Charlesworth, the managing-director, to attend the inquest upon his friend, returned to the City in a very perturbed state of mind.

He sat at his desk on that grey December afternoon, unable to attend to the correspondence before him, unable to fix his mind upon business, unable to understand the subtle ramifications of the cleverly conceived and dastardly plot, the key of which he had discovered by those few words he had overheard between the Chairman of the Board and his close friend, the great Lewin Rodwell.

He was wondering whether his dead friend’s allegation that Rodwell was none other than Ludwig Heitzman was really the truth. Sir Houston Bird had promised to institute inquiry at the Alien department of the Home Office, yet, only that day he had heard that the official of whom inquiry must be made actually bore a German name. The taint of the Teuton seemed, alas! over everything, notwithstanding the public resentment apparent up and down the whole country, and the formation of leagues and unions to combat the activity of the enemy in our midst.

Jack Sainsbury disagreed with the verdict of suicide. Jerome Jerrold was surely not the man to take his own life by swallowing strychnine. Yet why had he left behind that puzzling and mysterious message which Charles Trustram, having given his word of honour to his friend, refused to be opened for another year?

The will had been found deposited with his solicitor – a will which left the sum of eighteen-odd thousand pounds to “my friend and assistant in many confidential matters, Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead.”

As far as it went that was gratifying to Jack. It rendered him independent of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, and the strenuous “driving-power,” as it is termed in the City, of Charlesworth, the sycophant of Sir Boyle Huntley and his fellow directors. The whole office knew that Huntley and Rodwell, brought in during days of peace “to reorganise the Company upon a sound financial basis,” were gradually getting all the power into their own hands, as they had done in other companies. The lives of that pair were one huge money-getting adventure.

In the office strange things were whispered. But Jack alone knew the truth.

The most irritating fact to him was that Jerome Jerrold, just as he had discovered Rodwell’s birth and masquerading, had died.

Why?

Why had Lewin Rodwell rung up his new friend, Trustram, just before poor Jerome’s death? Why had Jerome asked to see his friend Sainsbury so particularly on that night? Why had he locked his door and taken his life at the very moment when he should have lived to face and denounce the man who, while an alien enemy, was posing as a loyal subject of Great Britain?

Of these and other things – things which he had discussed on the previous night with Elise – he was thinking deeply, when a lad entered saying:

“Mr Charles worth wants to see you, sir.” He rose from his chair and ascended in the lift to the next floor. On entering the manager’s room he found Mr Charlesworth, the catspaw of Sir Boyle, seated in his padded chair, smoking a good cigar.

“Oh – er – Sainsbury. I’m rather sorry to call you in, but the directors have decided that as you are of military age they are compelled, from patriotic motives, to suggest to you that you should join the army, as so many of the staff here have done. Don’t you think it is your duty?”

Jack Sainsbury looked the manager straight in the face.

“Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. “I quite agree. It certainly is my duty to resign and take my part in the defence of the country. But,” he added, “I think it is somewhat curious that the directors have taken this step – to ask me to resign.” Charlesworth, an estimable man, and beloved by the whole of the staff of the company at home and abroad, hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“Unfortunately I am only here to carry out the orders of the directors, Sainsbury. You have been a most reliable and trusted servant of the company, and I shall be only too pleased to write you a good testimonial. You will have half-pay during the time you are absent, of course, as the others have.”

“Well, if I leave the Ochrida Copper Corporation, as the directors have practically dismissed me, I require no half-pay – nothing whatever,” he answered, with a grim smile. “I part from you and from the company, Mr Charlesworth, with the very kindest and most cordial recollections; but I wish you, please, to give my compliments to the directors and say that, as they wish me to leave and act in the interests of my country, I shall do so, refusing to accept the half of my salary which they, in their patriotism, have so generously offered me.”

Charlesworth was a little puzzled by this speech. It was unexpected. The steady, hardworking clerk, who had been so reliable, and whom he had greatly esteemed, might easily have met his suggestion with resentment. Indeed, he had expected him to do so. But, on the contrary, Sainsbury seemed even eager to retire from the service of the company.

Charlesworth was, of course, ignorant of the conditions of Dr Jerrold’s will, or of those words Jack Sainsbury had overheard as he had entered the boardroom. Vernon Charlesworth had been a servant of the Ochrida Copper Corporation ever since its formation eighteen years ago – long before the “new blood” represented by the Huntley-Rodwell combination had been “brought into” it. From the first inception of the company the public, who had put their modest savings into it, had lost their money. Yet recently, by the bombastic and optimistic speeches of Sir Boyle Huntley at the Cannon Street Hotel, and the self-complacent smiles of Lewin Rodwell at the meetings, confidence had been inspired, and it was still a going concern – one which, if the truth be told, Huntley and Rodwell were working to get into their own hands.

“Of course I am really very sorry to part with you, Sainsbury,” the manager said, leaning back in his chair and looking at him. “You’ve been a most trustworthy servant, yet I, of course, have to abide by the decision of the board.”

Jack Sainsbury smiled.

“No, please don’t apologise, Mr Charlesworth,” he said, with a faint smile. “I daresay I shall soon find some other employment more congenial to me.”

“I hope so,” replied the manager, peering at the young man through his horn-rimmed glasses – a style affected in official circles. “Nowadays, with so many men at the front, it is not really a difficult matter to find a post in the City. It seems to me that the slacker has the best of it.”

“I’m not a slacker, though you may think I am, Mr Charlesworth,” cried Jack, reddening. “A month after war was declared I went to the recruiting office fully prepared to enlist. But, unfortunately, they rejected me as medically unfit.”

“Did they?” exclaimed the other in surprise. “You never told us that!”

“Was it necessary? I merely tried to do my duty. But – ” and he paused, and then, in a meaning voice, he added: “If I can’t do my duty out in the trenches, I can at least do it here, at home.”

“If it is true that you’ve been already rejected as unfit,” exclaimed Charlesworth, “I daresay I might induce the directors to reconsider their decision.”

“No, sir,” was Sainsbury’s proud reply. “I will not trouble you to do that. It is quite apparent that, for some unknown reason, they wish to dismiss me. Therefore I consider myself dismissed – and, to tell you the truth, I don’t regret it. But, before I go, I would like to thank you and the staff for all the kindness and consideration shown to me during my illness a year ago.”

“Then you refuse to stay?” asked Charlesworth, rather puzzled, for he held Sainsbury in high esteem.

“Yes. Before dismissing me I consider that the directors should have inquired whether I had tried to enlist,” he answered resentfully.

“Then I suppose there is no more to say. Shall you remain till the end of the week?”

“No, sir. I intend to go now. It would not, I think, be a very happy seven days for me if I remained, would it?”

Charlesworth sighed. He was sorry to lose the services of such a bright, shrewd and clever young man.

“Very well,” he replied regretfully. “If that is really so, Sainsbury, I must wish you good-bye,” and with frankness he stretched forth his hand, which the young man took, and then turned on his heel and left the manager’s room.

While Jack Sainsbury was on his way through the bustle of Gracechurch Street, Lewin Rodwell, who had been upstairs at a meeting of the board, descended and entered Charlesworth’s room, closing the door after him.

“Well,” he asked carelessly, after chatting upon several important business matters, “have you spoken yet to young Sainsbury?”

“Yes. And he’s gone.”

Lewin Rodwell drew a sigh of relief.

“He ought to enlist – a smart, athletic fellow like that! Such men are just what England wants to-day, Charlesworth. I hope you gave him a good hint – eh?”

“I did. But it seems that he has already endeavoured to enlist, but was rejected – a defective arm.”

Lewin Rodwell was silent – but only for a few seconds.

“Well, never mind; he’s gone. We must reduce the staff – it is quite imperative in these days. What about those six others? Staff reduction will mean increased profits, you know.”

“They all have notice. I’m sorry about Carew. He has an invalid wife and seven children. His salary is only two pounds fifteen.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help that, Charlesworth,” replied the man who posed in the West End as the great self-denying patriot who hobnobbed with, Cabinet Ministers. “We must reduce the staff, if we’re going to pay a dividend. He’ll get work – munition-making or something. Sentiment is out of place in these war-days.”

And yet, only two days before, the speaker had made a brilliant speech at a Mansion House meeting in which he had beaten the patriotic drum loudly, and appealed to all employers of labour to increase wages because of the serious rise in food-prices. Charlesworth knew this, but made no remark. It was not to his interest to thwart the great Lewin Rodwell, or his place-seeking sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley, who had been put by his friend into the position he now held.

Truly the City is a strange, complex world of unpatriotic, hard-hearted money-seeking – a world where the Anglo-German or the swindling financier waxes rich quickly, and where the God-fearing Englishman goes to a Rowton House ousted by the “peaceful penetration” of our “dear kind friends” the Germans.

Those who have known the City for the past ten years or so know full well – ay, they know, alas! too well – the way in which Germany has prepared us for the financial aspect of the war. In the light of current events much has been made plain that was hitherto shrouded in mystery. We have seen plainly the subtle methods of the enemy.

Lewin Rodwell and his catspaw, Sir Boyle, were only typical of dozens of others in that little area from Temple Bar to Aldgate, the men who were working for Germany both prior to the war and after.

Charlesworth, to do him full credit, was an honest Englishman. Yet such a man was bound to be employed by our enemies as a safeguard against inquiry, and in order to avert suspicion. City men, like Charlesworth, might be patriotic to the backbone, yet when it became a matter of choosing between bread-and-cheese and starvation, as in his own case, the matter of living at Wimbledon on two thousand a year appealed to him, in preference to cold mutton and lodgings in Bloomsbury.

Germans, with or without assumed English names, controlled our finances, our professions, our hotels, nay, our very lives, wherefore it was hardly surprising that we were unable, in the first few months of war, to rid ourselves of that disease known as “German measles.”

“I must say I’m sorry about Carew,” remarked Charlesworth. “He’s been with us ever since the formation of the Company – and you recollect we sent him abroad two years ago upon the Elektra deal. He made a splendid bargain – one that has brought us over twenty thousand pounds.”

“And he was paid a bonus of twenty-pounds, wasn’t he?” snapped Rodwell impatiently. “Surely that was enough?”

“But really I think we should keep him; he is very valuable.”

“No, Charlesworth. Let him go. Give him the best of references, if you like. But we must cut down expenses, if you and I are to live at all.”

“We must live at the expense of these poor devils, I suppose,” remarked Charlesworth, with a slight sigh.

Truth to tell, he could not express his repugnance.

“Yes. Surely we are the masters. And capital must live!” was the other’s hard reply. “But where is Sainsbury going?” Rodwell inquired quickly. “What does he intend doing?”

“I have no idea,” the manager said. “He behaved most mysteriously when I told him that his services were no longer required.”

“Mysteriously!” exclaimed Rodwell, starting and looking straight across at his companion. “How?”

“Well, he expressed undisguised pleasure at leaving us – that’s all.”

“What did he say?” asked Lewin Rodwell, in an instant deeply interested. “Tell me exactly what transpired. I have a reason – a very strong reason – for ascertaining. Tell me,” he urged, with an eagerness which was quite unusual to him. “Tell me the whole facts.”