"It remained for me to convince a medical man of Sir Thomas's insanity,
without which it was impossible to put him where he could do no harm. The first problem was how to get a medical man into his house. I
bethought me of his interest in beetles, and his love for anyone who
shared his tastes. I advertised, therefore, and was fortunate enough
to find in you the very man I wanted. A stout companion was necessary,
for I knew that the lunacy could only be proved by a murderous assault,
and I had every reason to believe that that assault would be made upon
myself, since he had the warmest regard for me in his moments of
sanity. I think your intelligence will supply all the rest. I did not
know that the attack would come by night, but I thought it very
probable, for the crises of such cases usually do occur in the early
hours of the morning. I am a very nervous man myself, but I saw no
other way in which I could remove this terrible danger from my sister's
life. I need not ask you whether you are willing to sign the lunacy
papers." "Undoubtedly. But TWO signatures are necessary." "You forget that I am myself a holder of a medical degree. I have the
papers on a side-table here, so if you will be good enough to sign them
now, we can have the patient removed in the morning." So that was my visit to Sir Thomas Rossiter, the famous beetle-hunter,
and that was also my first step upon the ladder of success, for Lady
Rossiter and Lord Linchmere have proved to be staunch friends, and they
have never forgotten my association with them in the time of their
need. Sir Thomas is out and said to be cured, but I still think that
if I spent another night at Delamere Court, I should be inclined to
lock my door upon the inside. The Man with the Watches

There are many who will still bear in mind the singular circumstances
which, under the heading of the Rugby Mystery, filled many columns of
the daily Press in the spring of the year 1892. Coming as it did at a
period of exceptional dullness, it attracted perhaps rather more
attention than it deserved, but it offered to the public that mixture
of the whimsical and the tragic which is most stimulating to the
popular imagination. Interest drooped, however, when, after weeks of
fruitless investigation, it was found that no final explanation of the
facts was forthcoming, and the tragedy seemed from that time to the
present to have finally taken its place in the dark catalogue of
inexplicable and unexpiated crimes. A recent communication (the
authenticity of which appears to be above question) has, however,
thrown some new and clear light upon the matter. Before laying it
before the public it would be as well, perhaps, that I should refresh
their memories as to the singular facts upon which this commentary is
founded. These facts were briefly as follows:

At five o'clock on the evening of the 18th of March in the year already
mentioned a train left Euston Station for Manchester. It was a rainy,
squally day, which grew wilder as it progressed, so it was by no means
the weather in which anyone would travel who was not driven to do so by
necessity. The train, however, is a favourite one among Manchester
business men who are returning from town, for it does the journey in
four hours and twenty minutes, with only three stoppages upon the way. In spite of the inclement evening it was, therefore, fairly well filled
upon the occasion of which I speak. The guard of the train was a tried
servant of the company--a man who had worked for twenty-two years
without a blemish or complaint. His name was John Palmer. The station clock was upon the stroke of five, and the guard was about
to give the customary signal to the engine-driver when he observed two
belated passengers hurrying down the platform. The one was an
exceptionally tall man, dressed in a long black overcoat with astrakhan
collar and cuffs. I have already said that the evening was an
inclement one, and the tall traveller had the high, warm collar turned
up to protect his throat against the bitter March wind. He appeared,
as far as the guard could judge by so hurried an inspection, to be a
man between fifty and sixty years of age, who had retained a good deal
of the vigour and activity of his youth. In one hand he carried a
brown leather Gladstone bag. His companion was a lady, tall and erect,
walking with a vigorous step which outpaced the gentleman beside her. She wore a long, fawn-coloured dust-cloak, a black, close-fitting
toque, and a dark veil which concealed the greater part of her face. The two might very well have passed as father and daughter. They
walked swiftly down the line of carriages, glancing in at the windows,
until the guard, John Palmer, overtook them. "Now then, sir, look sharp, the train is going," said he. "First-class," the man answered. The guard turned the handle of the nearest door. In the carriage which
he had opened, there sat a small man with a cigar in his mouth. His
appearance seems to have impressed itself upon the guard's memory, for
he was prepared, afterwards, to describe or to identify him. He was a
man of thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, dressed in some grey
material, sharp-nosed, alert, with a ruddy, weather-beaten face, and a
small, closely cropped, black beard. He glanced up as the door was
opened. The tall man paused with his foot upon the step. "This is a smoking compartment. The lady dislikes smoke," said he,
looking round at the guard. "All right! Here you are, sir!" said John Palmer. He slammed the door
of the smoking carriage, opened that of the next one, which was empty,
and thrust the two travellers in. At the same moment he sounded his
whistle and the wheels of the train began to move. The man with the
cigar was at the window of his carriage, and said something to the
guard as he rolled past him, but the words were lost in the bustle of
the departure. Palmer stepped into the guard's van, as it came up to
him, and thought no more of the incident. Twelve minutes after its departure the train reached Willesden
Junction, where it stopped for a very short interval. An examination
of the tickets has made it certain that no one either joined or left it
at this time, and no passenger was seen to alight upon the platform. At 5:14 the journey to Manchester was resumed, and Rugby was reached at
6:50, the express being five minutes late. At Rugby the attention of the station officials was drawn to the fact
that the door of one of the first-class carriages was open. An
examination of that compartment, and of its neighbour, disclosed a
remarkable state of affairs. The smoking carriage in which the short, red-faced man with the black
beard had been seen was now empty. Save for a half-smoked cigar, there
was no trace whatever of its recent occupant. The door of this
carriage was fastened.