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THE MAGIC CASKET

It was in the near neighbourhood of King’s Road, Chelsea, that
chance, aided by Thorndyke’s sharp and observant eyes, introduced us
to the dramatic story of the Magic Casket. Not that there was anything
strikingly dramatic in the opening phase of the affair, nor even in
the story of the casket itself. It was Thorndyke who added the
dramatic touch, and most of the magic, too; and I record the affair
principally as an illustration of his extraordinary capacity for
producing odd items of out-of-the-way knowledge and instantly applying
them in the most unexpected manner.

Eight o’clock had struck on a misty November night when we turned out
of the main road, and, leaving behind the glare of the shop windows,
plunged into the maze of dark and narrow streets to the north. The
abrupt change impressed us both, and Thorndyke proceeded to moralize
on it in his pleasant, reflective fashion.

“London is an inexhaustible place,” he mused. “Its variety is
infinite. A minute ago we walked in a glare of light, jostled by a
multitude. And now look at this little street. It is as dim as a
tunnel, and we have got it absolutely to ourselves. Anything might
happen in a place like this.”

Suddenly he stopped. We were, at the moment, passing a small church or
chapel, the west door of which was enclosed in an open porch; and as
my observant friend stepped into the latter and stooped, I perceived,
in the deep shadow against the wall, the object which had evidently
caught his eye.

“What is it?” I asked, following him in.

“It is a handbag,” he replied; “and the question is, what is it doing
here?”

He tried the church door, which was obviously locked, and coming out,
looked at the windows.

“There are no lights in the church,” said he; “the place is locked up,
and there is nobody in sight. Apparently the bag is derelict. Shall we
have a look at it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he picked it up and brought it out into
the mitigated darkness of the street, where we proceeded to inspect
it. But at the first glance it told its own tale; for it had evidently
been locked, and it bore unmistakable traces of having been forced
open.

“It isn’t empty,” said Thorndyke. “I think we had better see what is
in it. Just catch hold while I get a light.”

He handed me the bag while he felt in his pocket for the tiny electric
lamp which he made a habit of carrying--and an excellent habit it is.
I held the mouth of the bag open while he illuminated the interior,
which we then saw to be occupied by several objects neatly wrapped in
brown paper. One of these Thorndyke lifted out, and untying the string
and removing the paper, displayed a Chinese stoneware jar. Attached to
it was a label, bearing the stamp of the Victoria and Albert Museum,
on which was written: