Free Detection by Gaslight by Douglas G. Greene Page B

pronounces them mechanically, with no idea of their meaning. Come, we can do no more here now. But wait a moment.”
    There were footsteps outside. The light was removed, and a policeman went to the door and opened it as soon as the bell rang. Three men stepped in one after another, and the door was immediately shut behind them—they were prisoners.
    We left quietly, and although we, of course, expected it, it was not till the next morning that we learned absolutely that the largest arrest of Anarchists ever made in this country was made at the Bakunin Club that night. Each man as he came was admitted—and collared.

    We made our way to Luzatti’s, and it was over our dinner that Hewitt put me in full possession of the earlier facts of this case, which I have set down as impersonal narrative in their proper place at the beginning.
    â€œBut,” I said, “what of that aimless scribble you spoke of that Gérard made in the police-station? Can I see it?”
    Hewitt turned to where his coat hung behind him and took a handful of papers from his pocket.
    â€œMost of these,” he said, “mean nothing at all. That is what he wrote at first,” and he handed me the first of the two papers which were presented in facsimile in the earlier part of this narrative.
    â€œYou see,” he said, “he has begun mechanically from long use to write ‘monsieur’—the usual beginning of a letter. But he scarcely makes three letters before tailing off into sheer scribble. He tries again and again, and although once there is something very like ‘que,’ and once something like a word preceded by a negative ‘n,’ the whole thing is meaningless.
    â€œThis” (he handed me the other paper which has been printed in facsimile) “does mean something, though Gérard never intended it. Can you spot the meaning? Really, I think it’s pretty plain—especially now that you know as much as I about the day’s adventures. The thing at the top left-hand corner, I may tell you, Gérard intended for a sketch of a clock on the mantelpiece in the police-station.”
    I stared hard at the paper, but could make nothing whatever of it. “I only see the horse-shoe clock,” I said, “and a sort of second, unsuccessful attempt to draw it again. Then there is a horse-shoe dotted, but scribbled over, and then a sort of kite or balloon on a string, a Highlander, and—well, I don’t understand it, I confess. Tell me.”
    â€œI’ll explain what I learned from that,” Hewitt said, “and also what led me to look for it. From what the inspector told me, I judged the man to be in a very curious state, and I took a fancy to see him. Most I was curious to know why he should have a terror of bread at one moment and eat it ravenously at another. When I saw him I felt pretty sure that he was not mad, in the common sense of the term. As far as I could judge it seemed to be a case of aphasia.
    â€œThen when the doctor came I had a chat (as I have already told you) with the policeman who found the man. He told me about the incident of the bread with rather more detail than I had had from the inspector. Thus it was plain that the man was terrified at the bread only when it was in the form of a loaf, and ate it eagerly when it was cut into pieces. That was one thing to bear in mind. He was not afraid of bread, but only of a loaf.
    â€œVery well. I asked the policeman to find another uncut loaf, and to put it near the man when his attention was diverted. Meantime the doctor reported that my suspicion as to aphasia was right. The man grew more comfortable, and was assured that he was among friends and had nothing to fear, so that when at length he found the loaf near his elbow he was not so violently terrified, only very uneasy. I watched him and saw him turn it bottom up—a very curious thing to do; he immediately became less uneasy—the turning