Martin Hewitt, Investigator | Page 2

the cases,
however, as I personally saw nothing of I have put into narrative form
from the particulars given me.
"I consider you, Brett," he said, addressing me, "the most remarkable
journalist alive. Not because you're particularly clever, you know,
because, between ourselves, I hope you'll admit you're not; but because
you have known something of me and my doings for some years, and
have never yet been guilty of giving away any of my little business
secrets you may have become acquainted with. I'm afraid you're not so
enterprising a journalist as some, Brett. But now, since you ask, you
shall write something--if you think it worth while."
This he said, as he said most things, with a cheery, chaffing
good-nature that would have been, perhaps, surprising to a stranger
who thought of him only as a grim and mysterious discoverer of secrets
and crimes. Indeed, the man had always as little of the aspect of the
conventional detective as may be imagined. Nobody could appear more
cordial or less observant in manner, although there was to be seen a
certain sharpness of the eye--which might, after all, only be the twinkle
of good humor.
I did think it worth while to write something of Martin Hewitt's
investigations, and a description of one of his adventures follows.
* * * * *

At the head of the first flight of a dingy staircase leading up from an
ever-open portal in a street by the Strand stood a door, the dusty
ground-glass upper panel of which carried in its center the single word
"Hewitt," while at its right-hand lower corner, in smaller letters,
"Clerk's Office" appeared. On a morning when the clerks in the
ground-floor offices had barely hung up their hats, a short, well-dressed
young man, wearing spectacles, hastening to open the dusty door, ran
into the arms of another man who suddenly issued from it.
"I beg pardon," the first said. "Is this Hewitt's Detective Agency
Office?"
"Yes, I believe you will find it so," the other replied. He was a stoutish,
clean-shaven man, of middle height, and of a cheerful, round
countenance. "You'd better speak to the clerk."
In the little outer office the visitor was met by a sharp lad with inky
fingers, who presented him with a pen and a printed slip. The printed
slip having been filled with the visitor's name and present business, and
conveyed through an inner door, the lad reappeared with an invitation
to the private office. There, behind a writing-table, sat the stoutish man
himself, who had only just advised an appeal to the clerk.
"Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd--Mr. Vernon Lloyd," he said, affably,
looking again at the slip. "You'll excuse my care to start even with my
visitors--I must, you know. You come from Sir James Norris, I see."
"Yes; I am his secretary. I have only to ask you to go straight to Lenton
Croft at once, if you can, on very important business. Sir James would
have wired, but had not your precise address. Can you go by the next
train? Eleven-thirty is the first available from Paddington."
"Quite possibly. Do you know any thing of the business?"
"It is a case of a robbery in the house, or, rather, I fancy, of several
robberies. Jewelry has been stolen from rooms occupied by visitors to
the Croft. The first case occurred some months ago--nearly a year ago,
in fact. Last night there was another. But I think you had better get the

details on the spot. Sir James has told me to telegraph if you are
coming, so that he may meet you himself at the station; and I must
hurry, as his drive to the station will be rather a long one. Then I take it
you will go, Mr. Hewitt? Twyford is the station."
"Yes, I shall come, and by the 11.30. Are you going by that train
yourself?"
"No, I have several things to attend to now I am in town.
Good-morning; I shall wire at once."
Mr. Martin Hewitt locked the drawer of his table and sent his clerk for
a cab.
At Twyford Station Sir James Norris was waiting with a dog-cart. Sir
James was a tall, florid man of fifty or thereabout, known away from
home as something of a county historian, and nearer his own parts as a
great supporter of the hunt, and a gentleman much troubled with
poachers. As soon as he and Hewitt had found one another the baronet
hurried the detective into his dog-cart. "We've something over seven
miles to drive," he said, "and I can tell you all about this wretched
business as we go. That is why I came for you myself, and alone."
Hewitt nodded.
"I have sent for you, as Lloyd probably told you, because