"Mr. Carless," he said earnestly, "you know that before I came to you,
now nearly forty years ago, I was a medical student: you know, too, you
and Mr. Driver, why I gave up medicine for the law. But--I haven't
forgotten all of that I learned in the medical schools and the
hospitals."
"Well, Portlethwaite," demanded Mr. Carless, "what is it? You've
some idea?"
"Gentlemen," answered the elderly clerk. "I was always particularly
interested in anatomy in my medical student days. I've been looking
attentively at what I could see of that man's injured finger since he sat
down at that desk. And I'll lay all I have that he lost the two joints of
that finger within the last three months! The scar over the stump had not
long been healed. That's a fact!"
Mr. Carless looked round with a triumphant smile.
"There!" he exclaimed. "What did I tell you? Coincidence--nothing but
coincidence!"
But Portlethwaite shook his head.
"Why not say design, Mr. Carless?" he said meaningly. "Why not say
design? If this man, or the people who are behind him, knew that the real
Lord Marketstoke had a finger missing, what easier--in view of the stake
they're playing for--than to remove one of this man's fingers? Design,
sir, design.
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