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Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective
Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective
CHAPTER I
THE AFFAIR OF THE IVORY BOXES
There was a substantial aspect about Blenheim Square, not of that monotonous type which characterizes so many London squares, but a certain grace and consciousness of well-being.
The houses, though maintaining some uniformity, possessed individuality, and in the season were gay with window-boxes and flowers; the garden in the center was not too stereotyped in its arrangement, and plenty of sunlight found its way into it. The inhabitants were people of ample means, and the address was undoubtedly a good one. There was no slum in close proximity, that seamy background which so constantly lies behind a fair exterior of life; it was seldom that any but respectable people were seen in the square, for hawkers and itinerant musicians were forbidden; and, beyond a wedding or a funeral at intervals, nothing exciting ever seemed to happen there.
It looked particularly attractive when I entered it one spring morning early and made my way to No. 12.
As I approached the house and noted that the square was still asleep, an old gentleman, clad in a long and rather rusty overcoat, shuffled toward me from the opposite direction. He wore round goggles behind which his eyes looked unusually large, and a wide-awake hat was drawn over his silver locks.
He stopped in front of me and, without a word, brought his hand from his pocket and gave me a card.
"Christopher Quarles," I said, reading from the bit of pasteboard.
"My name. What is yours?"
"Murray Wigan," I answered, and the next instant was wondering why I had told him.
"Ah, I do not fancy we have met before, Detective Wigan. Perhaps we may help each other."
"You knew Mr. Ratcliffe?" I asked.