"No, of course you wouldn't want to. By the way, I have been wondering
how Mr. Blackmore managed about his washing."

The porter evidently regarded this question with some disfavour, for he
replied only with an interrogative grunt. It was, in fact, rather an odd
question.

"Did you get it done for him," Thorndyke pursued.

"No, certainly not, sir. He got it done for himself. The laundry people
used to deliver the basket here at the lodge, and Mr. Blackmore used to
take it in with him when he happened to be passing."

"It was not delivered at his chambers, then?"

"No, sir. Mr. Blackmore was a very studious gentleman and he didn't like
to be disturbed. A studious gentleman would naturally not like to be
disturbed."

Thorndyke cordially agreed with these very proper sentiments and finally
wished the porter "good night." We passed out through the gateway into
Wych Street, and, turning our faces eastward towards the Temple, set
forth in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. What Thorndyke's were
I cannot tell, though I have no doubt that he was busily engaged in
piecing together all that he had seen and heard and considering its
possible application to the case in hand.

As to me, my mind was in a whirl of confusion. All this searching and
examining seemed to be the mere flogging of a dead horse. The will was