Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“Still — we can all make mistakes, and this poisoning charge, sound as it looked, has rather fallen through, hasn’t it? Here am I, alive and pretty well — and happier than I’ve been for a long time past.

“Then there’s my son. He is also alive, in flourishing health — and particularly happy. He seems to have enjoyed himself uncommonly at Dunkillin; and when it comes to direct action Tom is what we Scots call an ill lad to fratch with. I’m glad, on the whole, that he didn’t succeed in shooting that little ruffian who broke into his bedroom and broke my head.

“One is allowed to shoot a burglar, I believe, though naturally it leads to all sorts of awkward inquiries and troublesome justifications. But that affair is still a little mysterious, inspector.

“One goes by evidence, and as you have no evidence which definitely connects it with Mrs. McKellar, can you do any good by arresting her? The whole scheme throughout is a record of failure.

“There is, of course, the unidentified body at Barmouth, carrying Mr. Harbord Chaytor’s papers. Apparently a sailor who met with some accident at sea; one of a shady crew the rest of whom seem to have disappeared completely. But I suppose his identity is a matter for the coroner at Barmouth, who will probably now discover his origin and whether he really came from Wexford or not.

“I am not deeply interested in that. Finally there is John McKellar, officially dead four months, and him I place unreservedly in your hands, inspector. Though the statement might surprise a purist, my conscience is quite easy, and I don’t think I have broken the law. But if you would like to arrest me, I am ready.”

“Arrest? I can’t arrest you!” said Maffet. “But—”

He broke off, and subsided for a few moments into a grim, reflective silence. Everything that McKellar said, Maffet had already told himself. He was a hard-working officer of average ability, and he was up against the most amazing case he had ever dealt with. He had every thread of it now at his fingers’ ends, and yet was more helpless now — so far as making an arrest was concerned — than when he started.

“The sad fact remains, inspector,” said Mr. McKellar, “that you really have no actual crime to report at all.”

“Yes, sir,” said Maffet. “In a sense that’s so. But — it’s very embarrassing for me, and still more so for you. It’s going to play the devil with all of us. It beats me what the yard will have to say, when I report that you are alive.”

McKellar smiled.

“It seems rather a pity to entertain them with a story that is really none of their business,” he suggested.

The inspector stared at him.

“You have a distinguished record up to now, I believe — and a long one,” said Mr. McKellar gently. “Have you never thought how pleasant it would be to retire? To a nice little farm, shall we say, on the south coast.”

Maffet flushed scarlet to the ears. He turned squarely to McKellar, bristling like an angry dog.

“Do you suppose, sir,” he said icily, “that you can—”

“With the interest on a capitalized sum of, say, twenty-five thousand pounds,” continued Mr. McKellar soothingly, “to make the remainder of your days comfortable and happy? I like making people happy, having till recently known so little happiness myself. Listen to me for a moment more.

“I am more than satisfied with my name of Gillespie and my present status, and I wish to continue it — not as Gillespie the butler, but as John Gillespie, the trusted friend and confidant of my boy and his wife. Between ourselves — my son is not to know this — it won’t be for long; my life is not a good one.

“We are going abroad, together all three of us. That’s already been settled. We have all had enough of Dunkillin — for the present. I don’t mind if I don’t see the place again; its associations are not of the happiest for me.

“But the young couple are very attached to Dunkillin, and they will return to it when they are no longer encumbered with Mr. Gillespie.”

The flush faded from Maffet’s face as he listened. The resentment died out of his eyes. He looked at the old man pityingly.

There was a long silence.

“You’re going abroad, sir?” he said at last.

“Yes. John Gillespie is going abroad. Scotland will see no more of him. Now, how about it, inspector? If I didn’t know you to be an honest man I should not make this offer. I am only asking you to respect a personal confidence which I made to you of my own free will. To break it will benefit nobody.

“But as personal confidences are unusual between a citizen and a policeman, I suggest that after you have made the necessary report — which your experience and intelligence will suggest — upon events at Dunkillin, and avoiding any mention of the survival of John McKellar, you resign your post at Scotland Yard and accept this acknowledgment of your discretion.