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A Historical and
Theological
Investigation of
John’s Gospel
Kirk R. MacGregor
A Historical and Theological
Investigation of John’s Gospel
Kirk R. MacGregor
A Historical and
Theological
Investigation of John’s
Gospel
Kirk R. MacGregor
Department of Philosophy & Religion
McPherson College
McPherson, KS, USA
ISBN 978-3-030-53400-4 ISBN 978-3-030-53401-1 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53401-1
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Preface
The purpose of this book is to advance new and underexplored theses on

a host of issues concerning the Gospel of John in order to generate fresh
and creative lines of thought within Johannine scholarship. Owing to the
diversity of these issues, the book draws upon a variety of methodological
approaches, including historical criticism, literary criticism, source criti-
cism, reception history, and logical analysis. Each chapter of the volume
will challenge some commonly held historical and/or theological assump-
tions about the Fourth Gospel and explain how these challenges can help
reshape scholarly thinking about John. A brief description of each of the
book’s major arguments and their value for future inquiry is pro-
vided below.
Chapter 1 challenges the majority view of anonymous authorship of the
Fourth Gospel and the sizeable minority view of authorship by the Apostle
John. Following Jean Colson, Martin Hengel, Claude Tresmontant,
Maria-Luisa Rigato, and especially Richard Bauckham, I propose that a
different John—John the Elder, an eyewitness of Jesus’ actions in
Jerusalem—stands as the author of the Fourth Gospel. I suggest that this
Elder John was a Temple priest who owned the house where the Last
Supper was eaten. Hopefully these hypotheses will stimulate future
research into the relationships between the Fourth Gospel and eyewitness
testimony and between the Fourth Gospel and the Temple
establishment.
Chapter 2 begins by siding with the approximately 50 percent of schol-
ars who posit the literary and epistemic independence of John’s Gospel
from the Synoptics. I proceed to offer an innovative reconstruction of the
v
vi PREFACE
Signs Source underlying the Fourth Gospel which differs considerably

from that of previous scholarship. Further challenging the scholarly con-
sensus, I suggest that the Signs Source was composed by the Elder John
himself two decades before incorporating it into his Gospel. The theses in
this chapter will hopefully prompt Johannine scholars to reexplore the
structure of the Signs Source and the literary similarities between the Signs
Source and material distinct to the Fourth Gospel.
Chapter 3 defends the traditional theological view—often overlooked
in Johannine scholarship—that the Fourth Gospel presents Jesus as onto-
logically equal but functionally subordinate to God the Father. Based on
an innovative exegesis of John 17, I propose that Jesus extends the rela-
tional unity between Father and Son to everyone who pledges their alle-
giance to Jesus and his Kingdom movement. These theses will hopefully
provoke Johannine scholars, in an interdisciplinary vein, to consider how
the application of philosophical categories regarding being, role, and unity
might shed new light on the Fourth Gospel.
Chapter 4 presents my original view that in the Gospel of John, the
meaning of the phrase πιστεύω εἰς plus the accusative (believing in Jesus)
is carefully crafted by the Evangelist to specifically denote personal com-
mitment to Jesus analogous to a marriage. My identification of the double
entendre in John 2.1–11 is central to this proposal. Accordingly, persons
who “believe in” Jesus are those who enter into a spiritual marriage with
Jesus, not those who simply believe certain ontological and soteriological
facts about Jesus. This suggestion has the potential of inspiring scholars to
investigate the relationship between the Fourth Gospel and its possible
reception through the theme of spiritual marriage in the history of
Christian mysticism and of the sixteenth-century Reformations.
Chapter 5 challenges the majority view in Johannine scholarship that
“believing in his (Jesus’) name” (πιστεύω εἰς τὸ ὄνομα αὐτοῦ) constitutes
an inferior and salvifically impotent assent to Jesus’ messiahship purely on
the basis of his miracles. Rather, I postulate that πιστεύω εἰς τὸ ὄνομα
αὐτοῦ is equivalent to πιστεύω εἰς αὐτὸν and denotes allegiance to Jesus as
the embodiment of Yahweh. I further suggest that, in its historical con-
text, Jesus’ refusal to entrust himself to some who “believed in his name”
following his Temple demonstration means not that he refused to bequeath
such persons’ spiritual salvation but that he would not give himself over to
be the political, military messiah they were longing for amidst their Roman
oppression. These proposals will hopefully motivate future scholarship to
PREFACE vii
explore potential Johannine differences between spiritual and political

redemption.
Chapter 6 innovatively applies the doctrine of middle knowledge to the
seeming Johannine paradox that, simultaneously, God the Father chooses
only some persons to be saved, each person is able to freely choose between
salvation and condemnation, and God the Father desires all persons to be
saved. I reconcile these three Johannine claims by suggesting that, while
God wants everyone to be saved, God middle-knows that there is no
world of free creatures he can create where all would be freely saved.
Different worlds of free creatures he can create offer different groups of
persons who would be freely saved and freely condemned. God’s choice of
which world to create simply is his predestination of every individual in
that world whom God middle-knew would freely receive salvation. Along
the way, I propose that the salvific inability the Fourth Gospel ascribes to
those who fail to enter into spiritual marriage with Jesus is an inability in
sensu composito rather than an inability in sensu diviso. These suggestions
will hopefully stimulate Johannine scholars to consider, in an interdisci-
plinary vein, how the philosophical concept of middle knowledge might
illuminate other quandaries in the Fourth Gospel.
Chapter 7 corroborates my thesis—rarely found in modern scholar-
ship—that, in John 8.40 and 8.56, Jesus asserts not merely preexistence as
Abraham’s contemporary but also to be among the three ‫“( אֲ נ ָׁׅ֔שים‬men”)
who comprised Yahweh’s theophany to Abraham. My exegesis stands fully
in line with the Hebrew Bible interpretive schema of the ante-Nicene
Church Fathers, especially Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, and Tertullian, whereby
the “angel of Yahweh” theophanies always included or specifically desig-
nated the pre-incarnate Logos. This chapter’s thesis will hopefully prompt
Johannine scholarship to investigate the Evangelist’s theology of the Angel
of Yahweh and to reexplore the trajectory of angelomorphic Christology
in earliest Christianity.
Chapter 8 challenges the common understanding of John 14.6 that
salvation only comes to persons who specifically believe in Jesus. Rather, I
innovatively suggest that Jesus was claiming to be a person of such impor-
tance in the calculus of salvation that all who ever experienced relationship
with God as Father from the beginning of the world until his day only did
so through Jesus, despite that the vast majority of such persons predated
Jesus’ earthly life and so knew nothing about Jesus. Contrary to prevailing
scholarly opinion, I propose that John 14.6 is an authentic saying of the
historical Jesus. These contentions will hopefully spark interreligious
viii PREFACE
dialogue between Johannine scholars and scholars of non-Christian reli-

gions regarding the possibility, according to the Fourth Gospel and per-
haps Jesus himself, that non-Christian religions constitute valid avenues of
salvation.
Chapter 9 defends the traditional theological reading of the Fourth
Gospel—often minimized in Johannine scholarship—that the Evangelist
presents the Holy Spirit as a divine person, not an impersonal force, along-
side of God the Father and Jesus himself. I suggest that John furnishes a
proto-Trinitarianism, in which the Spirit is ontologically equal but func-
tionally subordinate to both God the Father and Jesus. These suppositions
have the potential to prompt Johannine scholars into new explorations of
the Fourth Gospel’s pneumatology and role in shaping proto-orthodoxy.
Chapter 10 proposes that the “doubting Thomas” narrative does not,
contrary to contemporary scholarship, present a sincere Thomas simply
needing sufficient evidence in order to believe and a Jesus who commends
blind faith. I delineate the original interpretation that Thomas, utterly
crushed and betrayed by Jesus’ crucifixion, absolutely refused to pledge
his allegiance once again to Jesus, even after receiving more than sufficient
evidence that Jesus had in fact resurrected from the dead. To underline his
absolute refusal to have anything more to do with Jesus, Thomas insin-
cerely listed what he regarded as absolutely impossible conditions, which
would need to be fulfilled before he ever followed Jesus again. Upon
Thomas’ seeing the resurrected Jesus (but never feeling Jesus’ wounds)
and again pledging his allegiance to Jesus, Jesus chastised Thomas not for
requiring evidence but for refusing to pledge his allegiance to Jesus upon
receiving more than sufficient evidence. My interpretation will hopefully
prompt creative reflection on the Fourth Gospel’s relationship between
faith and reason.
It is my sincere hope that this book, regardless of one’s level of agree-
ment or disagreement with its theses, will serve as a springboard for several
new avenues of inquiry in Johannine scholarship and stimulate the reader
to deeper reflection on the Fourth Gospel.
McPherson, KS, USA Kirk R. MacGregor

Acknowledgments
I would like to thank all my colleagues at McPherson College, who create

an ideal atmosphere of care, congeniality, and nurture for me to flourish
professionally and personally. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Dr.
Michael Schneider, president, and Dr. Bruce Clary, vice president for aca-
demic affairs, for their constant investment in my teaching, scholarship,
and well-being. Thanks to Dr. Herb Smith and Dr. Tom Hurst, my peers
in the Department of Philosophy and Religion, for their deep friendship
and firm support of my academic endeavors.
I am forever grateful to Dr. Edwin Yamauchi, Professor Emeritus of
History at Miami University, a life-changing professor who introduced me
to the academic study of philosophy and religion when I was an under-
graduate at Miami. Dr. Yamauchi opened my eyes to the world of profes-
sional monographs and journals in biblical studies, a world in which I
found myself quite at home. Through my senior capstone with Dr.
Yamauchi, I found my calling in life as a scholar of philosophy and reli-
gion. During my graduate studies and since earning my doctorate in 2005,
Dr. Yamauchi has always kept in touch with me, attending papers of mine
and graciously treating me to meals at professional conferences. He is a
model academic advisor who genuinely cares about students following
graduation. In addition, his exceptional teaching style serves as the pattern
which I have attempted to emulate in the classroom.
Thanks are especially due to my editors at Palgrave Macmillan, Phil
Getz and Amy Invernizzi. Their firm support of this project and their
patience in guiding me through the various stages of bringing the manu-
script to publication proved invaluable. I am also deeply grateful to two
ix
x ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
anonymous reviewers for their extremely incisive suggestions and critiques

of earlier drafts of the manuscript. They are responsible for greatly enhanc-
ing the quality of this book.
Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank my wife Lara and my
son Dwiane. I have deeper theological and philosophical conversations
with Lara than with anyone else, and several of those conversations have
centered on the Gospel of John. Dwiane’s perpetual energy and enthusi-
asm give me great joy.
Contents
1 Who Is the Author of the Gospel of John, and When

Was It Written? 1
Internal Evidence for the Authorship of the Fourth Gospel 3
External Evidence for the Authorship of the Fourth Gospel 20
Prospects for Future Research 34
References 38
2 What Is the Gospel’s Relationship to Previous Literary

Sources? 45
Johannine Independence from the Synoptic Gospels 47
Source Criticism of the Fourth Gospel 59
Reconstruction of the Signs Source 66
Prospects for Future Research 81
References 89
3 What Is the Nature of Jesus’ Oneness with the Father? 93

The Background and Exegesis of John 1.1 94
The Significance of John 1.18 96
The Ontological Unity of Jesus and the Father in John 10.30 98
The Functional Subordination of Jesus to the Father 99
The Ontological Unity of the Disciples with One Another and
Their Relational Unity with God102
Prospects for Future Research104
References106
xi
xii Contents
4 What Does It Mean to “Believe in Him”?109

The Real Wedding at Cana110
Making the Double Entendre Explicit113
Consequences for the Johannine Conception of Faith115
References120
5 Does “Believing in His Name” Constitute Saving Faith?123

The Insufficiency of Belief Through Miracles?126
The Meaning of Jesus’ Temple Actions129
How Did the Crowds Interpret Jesus’ Demonstration?131
References142
6 How Do We Reconcile Divine Election and Human

Freedom in John?145
(1) God the Father Chooses Only Some Persons to Be Saved146
(2) Each Person Is Able to Freely Choose Between Salvation
and Condemnation148
(3) God the Father Desires All Persons to Be Saved150
Applying the Doctrine of Middle Knowledge to the Johannine
Teachings151
References156
7 According to John 8, Did Abraham in His Lifetime

See Jesus?159
The Claim of John 8.40 and Its Possible Biblical Allusions 160
The Claim of John 8.56 and Its Intertextual Significance 164
John 8.31–59 and Early Christian Reflections on Jesus 168
References179
8 What Did Jesus Mean in John 14.6?181

Grammatico-Historical Exegesis of John 14.6 182
The Historical Authenticity of John 14.6 189
References194
Contents xiii
9 What Is the Nature of the Holy Spirit?197

The Divine Personality of the Spirit197
The Character and Roles of the Spirit200
The Functional Subordination of the Spirit202
References205
10 Why Did the Resurrected Jesus Upbraid Thomas?207

Jesus and Thomas208
Thomas’ Encounter with the Resurrected Jesus211
References214
11 Conclusion217
Reference220
Index 221
About the Author
Kirk R. MacGregor (Ph.D., University of Iowa) is Associate Professor

of Philosophy and Religion and Department Chair at McPherson College.
He is the author of six books, including Contemporary Theology: An
Introduction—Classical, Evangelical, Philosophical, and Global Perspectives
and Luis de Molina: The Life and Theology of the Founder of Middle
Knowledge. He has also written over thirty journal articles appearing in
such forums as the Harvard Theological Review, the Journal of the
American Academy of Religion, Church History and Religious Culture,
Religious Studies and Theology, Philosophia Christi, the Westminster
Theological Journal, Bibliotheca Sacra, International Journal for Philosophy
of Religion, and the Heythrop Journal.
xv
CHAPTER 1
Who Is the Author of the Gospel of John,

and When Was It Written?
The authorship of the Gospel of John has long been a controversial topic
in New Testament studies. Over the past two centuries, three options have
emerged as prominent: authorship by the Apostle John, authorship by the
Elder John, and anonymous authorship. The conviction that John the
Apostle wrote this Gospel conforms to the testimony of the Church
Fathers from the third through sixth centuries and served as the consensus
belief of the church from that time until the modern era. The most cele-
brated defense of apostolic authorship was furnished by B. F. Westcott
(1894). A considerable number of recent exegetes, including John
A. T. Robinson (1985, pp. 93–122), D. A. Carson (1991, pp. 68–81),
Robert Gundry (1994, pp. 252–54), Leon Morris (1995, pp. 4–24),
Herman Ridderbos (1997, pp. 672–83), Andreas Köstenberger (1999,
pp. 22–25), Craig Blomberg (2001, pp. 22–41), Craig Keener (2003, vol.
1, pp. 82–104), and C. G. Kruse (2003, pp. 24–30), have found the
hypothesis of apostolic authorship most attractive.
The view that John the Elder composed the Fourth Gospel stems from
Papias’ identification (c. 110 ce) of an Elder John, separate from the
Apostle John, who was still living in the 80s ce after the apostles had died
and providing eyewitness recollection of the Jesus traditions in the
churches of Asia Minor. Other factors in favor of this view include the self-
identification of “the elder” as the writer of other literature known to bear
the same authorship as the Gospel of John (2 John 1; 3 John 1)1 and the
testimony of Polycrates (190–195 ce) and most probably Irenaeus (c. 180
© The Author(s) 2020 1

K. R. MacGregor, A Historical and Theological Investigation of
John’s Gospel, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53401-1_1
2 K. R. MACGREGOR
ce) that a John other than the Apostle John composed the Fourth Gospel.
This evidence has convinced Jean Colson (1969, pp. 85–108), Martin
Hengel (1989, pp. 24–73), Claude Tresmontant (1989, pp. 310–18),
Maria-Luisa Rigato (1990, pp. 451–83), and Richard Bauckham (2007,
pp. 33–72) that the Elder John was the author of the Gospel.
Despite this support for either the Apostle or the Elder John, the wide
majority of scholarly opinion favors anonymous authorship, typically at
the hands of a community originally founded or influenced by either the
beloved disciple, an eyewitness to Jesus’ ministry who may or may not be
the Apostle John, or an early Christian preacher. There are two classic
examples of this approach. The first comes from Raymond Brown, argu-
ably the leading Johannine scholar of the second half of the twentieth
century. Brown proposed five stages of redaction in the formation of the
Gospel: (1) material from the beloved disciple, (2) its development over
decades of preaching in the community which the beloved disciple
founded, (3) its organization into a consecutive Gospel, (4) its thorough
editing by an anonymous evangelist, and (5) its final reworking by a later
redactor (1966, pp. xxxiv–xxxix). The second example comes from
J. Louis Martyn. Martyn suggested three layers of the Fourth Gospel’s
accumulation: (1) material from a messianic group within the Ephesian
synagogue inspired by the sermons of an early Christian preacher, (2)
material from the group following its excommunication from the syna-
gogue and encounters with martyrdom, and (3) material from the group
after establishing its distinct identity both from the synagogue and from
other Christian communities (2003, pp. 147–168).
Scores of scholars, including Oscar Cullmann (1976, pp. 63–85), Ernst
Haenchen (1984, vol. 1, pp. 20–67), George Beasley-Murray (1987,
p. 415), James Charlesworth (1995, pp. 24–26, 46), Gail O’Day (1996,
pp. 491–96), D. Moody Smith (1999, pp. 399–400), Andrew Lincoln
(2000, p. 153), and Robert Kysar (2007, pp. 18–19), have followed the
general tenor of one of these two approaches and so conclude either (1)
that the beloved disciple’s witness either stands merely at the source of the
tradition which decades later, in other quite creative hands, produced the
Fourth Gospel or (2) that the beloved disciple has nothing to do with the
group responsible for fashioning the Fourth Gospel.
Following Colson, Hengel, Tresmontant, Rigato, and especially
Bauckham, this chapter will propose against the majority view that the
internal and external evidence converge in their support of John the Elder
as the author of the Fourth Gospel. In so doing, I will explain and then
1 WHO IS THE AUTHOR OF THE GOSPEL OF JOHN, AND WHEN WAS IT… 3
challenge the assumptions which lead adherents of anonymous authorship

and adherents of authorship by the Apostle John to dismiss the notion
that the Elder John composed the Gospel. Along the way, I will employ
the supposition of the Fourth Gospel’s authorship by the Elder John to
bolster a traditional date for the Gospel’s composition. I will conclude by
explaining how the theses advanced in this chapter might stimulate future
research of two issues. These are the relationships between the Fourth
Gospel and eyewitness testimony, and the relationships between the
Fourth Gospel and the Temple establishment.
Internal Evidence for the Authorship

of the Fourth Gospel
The Fourth Gospel begins and ends with an ancient literary device, which
Bauckham has termed the inclusio of eyewitness testimony. This device
constituted a form of citation where an author indicated an eyewitness
source of a narrative by listing that person as the first non-public figure
and the last non-public figure in the narrative. While that source may not
be the only one the author used in constructing the narrative, it is clearly
designated as one of the most important sources for the intervening mate-
rial between the two listings and an eyewitness source at that (Bauckham
2017, pp. 124–47).2 In John, the first non-public figures are two anony-
mous disciples of John the Baptist: “The next day John again was standing
with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed,
‘Look, here is the Lamb of God!’ The two disciples heard him say this, and
they followed Jesus” (John 1.35–37). While the Gospel immediately pro-
ceeds to identify one of these disciples as Andrew (John 1.40—“One of
the two who heard John speak and followed [Jesus] was Andrew, Simon
Peter’s brother”), the other disciple remains anonymous until the end of
the book.
It should be pointed out that this disciple occurs several times as a char-
acter throughout the Gospel under the elusive monikers “the disciple
whom Jesus loved” (John 13.23; 19.26–27; 20.2; 21.20), “one of his
disciples” (John 13.23), “another disciple” (John 18.15), “the one having
seen this” (John 19.35), “the other disciple” (John 18.16; 20.2, 4, 8), and
as one of “two others of his disciples” almost certainly alongside Andrew
(John 21.2); we shall later examine each of these references in detail. The
4 K. R. MACGREGOR
last non-public figure named in John is this beloved disciple, who is finally
identified as the author of the Gospel:
Peter turned and saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following them; he was
the one who had reclined next to Jesus as the supper and had said, “Lord,
who is it that is going to betray you?” When Peter saw him, he said to Jesus,
“Lord, what about him?” Jesus said to him, “If it is my will that he remain
until I come, what is that to you? You follow me!” So the rumor spread
among the community that this disciple would not die. Yet Jesus did not say
to him that he would not die, but, “If it is my will that he remain until I
come, what is that to you?” This is the disciple who is testifying to these
things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true. But
there are also many other things that Jesus did; if every one of them were
written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books
that would be written. (John 21.20–25)
Notice how the narrative is carefully crafted so that the beloved disciple,
not Peter, is the last non-public figure to be named in the Gospel under
the third-person “This is the disciple” (John 21.24) and the first-person
“we” (John 21.24) and “I” (John 21.25), thus marking out the inclusio of
eyewitness testimony. Hence, the eyewitness source of the Gospel speci-
fied by the inclusio—the beloved disciple—is further identified by its final
reference as the Gospel’s author.
A key reason which has led most scholars to reject a straightforward
reading of this identification is the Gospel’s highly advanced Christology,
which supposedly could not have been articulated by an eyewitness to
Jesus’ life but emerged only after the eyewitnesses had left the scene. As a
result, these scholars have argued that the verb γράφειν (to write) can be
used in a remote causative sense, such that the statement “This is the dis-
ciple who is testifying to these things and has written (γράψας) them”
(John 21.24) simply meant, in the words of Gottlob Schrenk, “that the
beloved disciple and his recollections stand behind this Gospel and are the
occasion of its writing…it would be difficult to press the formula to imply
other than an assertion of spiritual responsibility for what is contained in
the book” (1964, p. 743). In this way, John 21.24 is portrayed as consis-
tent with an anonymous author or community actually composing the
Gospel. The major weakness of this argument, however, is that no linguis-
tic evidence exists to support a remote causative sense of γράφειν; in fact,
all the extant evidence points in the opposite direction. For this evidence
shows that γράφειν refers to writing something either by personally
wielding the pen or by dictation to an amanuensis, that is, scribal secretary

(Hitchcock 1930, pp. 271–75). Consequently, Bauckham rightly con-
cludes that “whatever reasons a scholar might have to doubt that the
Beloved Disciple wrote the Gospel, these cannot serve, in the absence of
linguistic evidence, to determine the meaning of the words ‘has written
them’ in John 21.24…John 21.24 means that the Beloved Disciple com-
posed the Gospel, whether or not he wielded the pen…the statement
requires that he was substantially responsible both for the content and for
the words of the book” (2017, pp. 361–62).3 Hence, it is probable that
the beloved disciple stood no further removed from the Gospel of John
than the distance between speaker and scribe.
The fundamental assumption on which the argument for the remote
causative sense of γράφειν is based—that the highly advanced Christology
of the Fourth Gospel was not yet developed during the lifetime of the
eyewitnesses—stands at odds with equally sophisticated Christological
affirmations indisputably proffered before 70 ce. Thus, the early Christ
hymn (30s ce) quoted by Paul in Philippians 2.6–11 (c. 62 ce) depicts
Jesus as “existing in the form of God” but, “not regarding equality with
God as something to be exploited, he emptied himself, taking the form of
a slave, being born in human likeness” (vv. 6–7). As a result of his obedi-
ence to the point of “death on a cross,” God gave Jesus “the name that is
above every name” (a Jewish circumlocution for Yahweh) such that, in a
quotation of Isaiah 45.23–24 applied to Jesus, “every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should
confess that Jesus Christ is Lord (κύριος, the lxx translation of Yahweh)”
(vv. 8–11). Such a Christology from above, articulated within the first
decade of the Jesus movement, is on level pegging with the claims of the
Johannine prologue (John 1.1–18) that Jesus is God (vv. 1, 18) and the
λόγος who became flesh and tabernacled among humanity (v. 14).
Similarly, the multiple Pauline references to Jesus as κύριος in contexts
necessitating the meaning of Yahweh (i.e., application of lxx texts where
κύριος translates Yahweh to Jesus)4 and the highly probable Pauline refer-
ence to Jesus as θεός in Romans 9.5 (Harris 1992, pp. 143–72) demon-
strate that a Christology as high as that of the Fourth Gospel existed in the
50s and 60s, clearly within the lifetime of the eyewitnesses. For these rea-
sons, the assumption that the Johannine Christology could not have been
articulated by an eyewitness is fallacious.
It should also be noted at this point that the assumption takes for
granted that none of the eyewitnesses lived until the last two decades of
6 K. R. MACGREGOR
the first century, when even the assumption’s proponents admit an

advanced Christology was extant (and so date the Gospel of John).
However, the internal evidence asserts precisely that the beloved disciple
was long-lived, surviving at least past the crucifixion of Peter (which
occurred c. 64 ce during the Neronian persecution), sparking the rumor,
based upon a misinterpretation of Jesus’ words, that the disciple would
live until Jesus’ second coming (John 21.17–23). The spread of this rumor
among the community of the beloved disciple is highly plausible if this
disciple outlived practically all of Jesus’ other disciples. The beloved dis-
ciple’s extraordinary longevity was therefore ascribed to Jesus’ wish that
this disciple should survive until the Parousia (Bauckham 2017, p. 420).
If this longevity extended to the close of the first century, then no possible
objection from advanced Christology can be successfully lodged against
the beloved disciple’s authorship of the Gospel.
In rebuttal to authorship by the beloved disciple, a grammatical ele-
ment frequently cited by proponents of anonymous authorship is the first-
person plural pronoun “we” in the sentence “This is the disciple who is
testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his tes-
timony is true” (John 21.24), perceiving here the community allegedly
responsible for this Gospel’s composition. However, the sum total of the
general and specific literary evidence suggests that this “we” is not a genu-
ine plural but denotes “I.” Generally speaking, writers of ancient Greek
transitioned seamlessly from first-person plural to first-person singular or
vice versa when describing themselves (Bauckham 2017, p. 370).5 An
example which exactly parallels the conclusion of the Fourth Gospel is the
final three sentences of On the Admirable Style of Demosthenes, composed
by the first-century bce rhetorician Dionysius of Halicarnassus:
I would have given you examples of what I have said but for the risk of
becoming a bore, especially as it is you that I am addressing. That is all we
have to say about the style of Demosthenes, my dear Ammaeus. If God
preserves us, we shall present you in a subsequent treatise with an even lon-
ger and more remarkable account than this of his genius in the treatment of
subject matter. (1974, vol. 1, p. 455; Bauckham 2017, p. 370)
A further example of this idiom mirroring John 21.24 is found in Josephus’

account of Joseph, who addresses Pharaoh’s dishonored butler as “we”
and “us”:
However, remember what prosperity I have foretold you when you have
found it true by experience; and when you are in authority, do not overlook
us in this prison, wherein you will leave us when you have gone to the place
we have foretold; for we are not in prison for any crime, but for the sake of
our virtue and sobriety we are condemned to suffering the penalty of male-
factors, and because we are not willing to injure him who has thus distressed
us, though it were for our own pleasure. (Antiquities of the Jews 2.68–69)6
In each of these examples, it is obvious that the first-person plural and the
first-person singular are synonymous, as Dionysius was the only person
writing to Ammaeus, and Joseph was the only person wrongfully
imprisoned.
Examining the specific evidence from the Johannine literature (the
Gospel and the Epistles of John, which bear common authorship), we find
the idiom of “we” substituting for “I” when the speaker is authoritatively
bearing witness.7 In John 3.11–12, Jesus alternates between “I” and “we”
when giving authoritative testimony to Nicodemus about the necessity of
spiritual rebirth for entrance into the kingdom of God: “Truly, truly, I say
to you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet
you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things
and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly
things?” That only Jesus possessed the knowledge of heavenly things and
saw these things, thus eliminating doubt that “we” and “our” referred to
“I” and “my,” is certified by the next sentence: “No one has ascended into
heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man”
(John 3.13).
1 John 1.1–4 employs the auctorial first-person plural several times in
authoritatively testifying about the λόγος of life, Jesus Christ, to the epis-
tle’s audience:
We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what
we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our
hands, concerning the word of life—this life was revealed, and we have seen
it and testify to it, and declare to you the eternal life that was with the Father
and was revealed to us—we declare to you what we have seen and heard so
that you also may have fellowship with us; and truly our fellowship is with
the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. We are writing these things so that
our joy may be complete.
8 K. R. MACGREGOR
That only one person in fact composed this epistle, so implying that “we”
here is an authoritative way of saying “I,” is confirmed by 1 John 2.1, 7–8,
12–14, 21, 26 and 5.13, all of which forthrightly state that “I am writing
these things to you”/“I am writing to you” (Bauckham 2017, p. 374).
Likewise, 3 John uses the first-person plural to convey the authority of
a previous work by the author, to defend the author from Diotrephes’
slander, and to bear official testimony about Demetrius:
I have written something to the church, but Diotrephes, who likes to put
himself first, does not acknowledge our authority. So if I come, I will call
attention to what he is doing in spreading false charges against us. And not
content with these charges, he refuses even to welcome the brothers and
sisters, and even prevents those who want to do so and expels them from the
church….Everyone has testified favorably about Demetrius, and so has the
truth itself. We also testify for him, and you know that our testimony is true.
I have much to write to you, but I would rather not write with pen and ink.
(3 John 9–10, 12–13)
As substantiated by the presence of two mutually exclusive and jointly

exhaustive groups, the author and his community (the “brothers and sis-
ters”), the first-person plural pronouns cannot refer to anyone other than
the author. For if the first-person plural pronouns did refer to the com-
munity, then Diotrephes would have been both spreading false charges
against the community and, in addition to this slander, refusing to embrace
the community. But his refusal to welcome the community is already pre-
supposed by his slander and does not require a separate act, thus showing
that the “us” Diotrephes slandered is different than the community
Diotrephes refused to embrace. Since this leaves only the author, by pro-
cess of elimination, the first-person plural pronouns in this passage refer to
the “I” writing the epistle (Jackson 1999, p. 13). This identification is
further evidenced in the alternation of “I” and “our” (3 John 9), “I” and
“us” (3 John 10), and “we” and “I” (3 John 12–13). In strikingly parallel
vocabulary to John 21.24, the author furnishes authoritative testimony as
to the virtue of Demetrius, a man known to and so spiritually attested by
Jesus, the truth itself: “We also testify for him, and you know that our
testimony is true” (3 John 12).
For these reasons, the most plausible reading of John 21.24 (“This is
the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we
know that his testimony is true”) which contextually corresponds to the
use of this vocabulary in the Johannine literature is that the author uses
“we” self-referentially to bear authoritative testimony to the truth of his
Gospel. This suggestion is corroborated by the alternation with “I” in the
following sentence (John 21.25) and by John 19.35, where the beloved
disciple uses precisely the same language as John 21.24 while referring to
himself in the third-person: “His testimony is true, and he knows that he
tells the truth.” Therefore the “he,” the beloved disciple, who “knows
that he tells the truth” and that “his testimony is true” (John 19.35) is
probably the same as the “we” who “know that his testimony is true”
(John 21.24). Consequently, the internal evidence indicates that, what-
ever sources the Gospel may have employed, its final author is not a com-
munity but one person, the beloved disciple.
At this juncture, we must turn to the question: what biographical infor-
mation about the beloved disciple can we glean from this Gospel’s internal
evidence? We observe first that the beloved disciple had originally been a
disciple of John the Baptist, who, along with Andrew, left John to follow
Jesus upon John’s identification of Jesus as the lamb of God (John
1.35–40). In support of the historicity of this datum, Blomberg highlights
how the observational detail of the narrative is irrelevant to any theologi-
cal agenda: “That it was about the tenth hour (4.00 pm) is a seemingly
unmotivated detail that could reflect eyewitness recollection (v. 39)”
(2001, p. 81). The next reference to the beloved disciple occurs in John
13, where we find him reclining on Jesus’ breast, and so sitting next to
Jesus on his right, at the Last Supper. Prompted by Peter, the beloved
disciple asked Jesus which person at the table would betray him, in
response to which Jesus picked out Judas Iscariot:
Jesus was troubled in spirit, and declared, “Truly, truly, I say to you, one of
you will betray me.” The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom
he was speaking. One of his disciples—the one whom Jesus loved—was
reclining on the breast of Jesus. Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to
ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So, having leaned back on the breast of
Jesus, he asked him, “Lord, who is it?” Jesus answered, “It is the one to
whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish.” So when
he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot.
After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to
him, “What you are going to do, do quickly.” Now no one at the table knew
why he said this to him. Some thought that, because Judas had the money
box, Jesus was telling him, “Buy what we need for the feast,” or that he
10 K. R. MACGREGOR
should give something to the poor. So, after receiving the piece of bread, he
immediately went out. And it was night. (John 13.21–30)
Here two features of the account deserve reflection: the beloved disciple’s
placement at table and items of close detail which intimate eyewit-
ness report.
Regarding the beloved disciple’s placement at table, we know from
first-century Jewish dining practices that Jesus and his disciples gathered
in a triclinium, or a dining room containing a central low block table with
couches around it on three sides. Forming a rectangular-cornered “U,”
there was a single couch at the bottom along with one couch on the left
and one couch on the right opposite each other (Blomberg 2001, p. 192).
The bottom couch held three people, while the left and right couches
customarily held three people each but could be elongated through cush-
ions (paired with table extensions) to accommodate an indeterminate
number of people. Across from the bottom couch, the table was left open
for people to bring food. The participants approached the table from
behind the couches and then reclined on their left side, supporting their
head on their left elbow and taking food with their right hand (Safrai
1988, pp. 732–33, 743–44). The principal person would serve as host and
sit at the head of the table, namely the center of the bottom couch, with
two honored associates seated, respectively, at his right and at his left.
According to Tosefta Berachot 5, which outlined late antique Jewish dining
etiquette, it was customary for the owner of the house, if he or she was not
the principal person and so did not assume the normal responsibility of
host, to sit at the right of the host.8 It is agreed on all scholarly hands that
Jesus did not own the house where the Last Supper was celebrated, but
that it was owned by one of Jesus’ disciples living in Jerusalem (Mark
14.12–16; Matt. 26.17–19; Luke 22.7–13). It is further agreed that Jesus
was the principal person at the meal and thus served as host. Jesus’ role as
host is displayed by the Johannine story of his extravagant hospitality in
washing his disciples’ feet (John 13.3–11; cf. Luke 22.27) and his blessing
and distribution of the elements in the Synoptics (Mark 14.22–25; Matt.
26.26–29; Luke 22.14–20). Accordingly, Jesus sat at the head of the table,
in the center of the bottom couch. Since the beloved disciple sat at Jesus’
right, where the owner of the house customarily sat while someone more
prominent than himself served as host, I suggest that the beloved disciple
owned the house where the Last Supper occurred and was therefore a
permanent resident of Jerusalem during the years of Jesus’ ministry

(Tresmontant 1989, pp. 310–11).9
If correct, this suggestion carries with it the significant implication that
the beloved disciple was not one of the Twelve, since none of them were
permanent residents of Jerusalem, much less owned a house there. All of
them hailed from the towns and villages of Galilee. This is especially evi-
dent of the Apostle John, who with his brother James and father Zebedee
had a fishing trade on the Sea of Galilee (Mark 1.16–20; Matt. 4.21–22),
and as partners of Simon Peter lived in one of the towns along the sea-
shore, probably either Bethsaida (John 1.14) or neighboring Capernaum
(Mark 1.29). Therefore, the internal evidence appears at odds with identi-
fying the beloved disciple as John the Apostle.
Regarding items of close detail, the specificity of the narrative creates
the impression that it is being reported by an observant eyewitness of what
happened (Tovey 1997, p. 140). For instance, the narrative enables us to
work out the seating positions of all four people involved in the conversa-
tion, not only Jesus and the beloved disciple but also Judas and Peter. In
so doing, we gain deeper insight into the dynamics of the conversation.
We have seen that Jesus sat at the head of the table in the middle of the
bottom couch, with the beloved disciple immediately to Jesus’ right. Here
it should be noted that a person’s head would be in line with the chest of
the person reclining to his left, making it easy for that person to lean back
and speak to the person on his left without anyone else hearing what was
said. This immediately explains why some of the statements at the supper
were heard by everyone at table while other statements were private. Upon
Jesus’ revelation that he would be betrayed by one at table, Peter, often
the spokesman for the Twelve, non-verbally motioned (νεύει, “nods”) to
the beloved disciple to ask Jesus who would betray him (John 13.24). In
order for the beloved disciple to have detected this subtle gesture, Peter
must have been sitting on the leftmost side couch, probably across the
table from the beloved disciple. As Brown observes, a creator of fiction
would have likely made Peter or the beloved disciple to ask the question
on his own (1970, p. 574). The beloved disciple’s head was level with the
chest of Jesus, allowing him to lean back and whisper the fateful question
to Jesus without the others hearing. This is precisely what the Greek text
of John 13.23 states: ἀναπεσὼν…ἐπὶ τὸ στῆθος τοῦ ’Ιησοῦ λέγει αὐτῷ,
Κύριε, τίς ἐστιν; (having leaned/fallen back on the breast of Jesus, he
asked him, “Lord, who is it?”). By the same token, Jesus’ response that it
12 K. R. MACGREGOR
was the person to whom he then gave the dipped bread would have only
been heard by the beloved disciple.
Significantly, the third-most place of honor at table to the left of the
host was occupied by Judas, to whom Jesus gave the piece of bread after
he dipped it in the common bowl. The head of Jesus was therefore in the
breast of Judas, making the seating arrangement an unspoken appeal for
friendship and intimacy. Moreover, in first-century Jewish culture, offer-
ing a piece of bread during a meal was a gesture of special affection and
friendship, as well as an act of reconciliation. Charles Talbert underscores
that “it was a mark of special favour for the host to dip bread in sauce and
personally serve a guest. This act represented love’s last appeal to one on
the verge of perdition” (1992, pp. 195–96). Thus even at this late time,
Jesus offered Judas an alternative to betraying him. Judas should have
responded by dipping a piece of bread in the bowl and giving it to Jesus in
return. Instead, Judas rejected the offer of friendship, a tremendous insult
which signified to Jesus and the beloved disciple that Judas had irreversibly
decided to betray Jesus. Hence it is little wonder that, at this moment, the
beloved disciple perceived that “Satan entered into” Judas and that Jesus
said to Judas, “What you are going to do, do quickly” (John 13.27).
The same can be said of the beloved disciple’s skillful use of the obser-
vational/spiritual double entendre “And it was night” (John 13.30) when
Judas left the upper room. This lucidity of detail is capped by the other
disciples’ unawareness of why Jesus made this request and even of their
speculations as to what Jesus meant by it, speculations which would not
have been evident to a later writer of fiction. That some of the disciples
thought Jesus wanted Judas to buy what they needed for the feast is firmly
grounded in Palestinian context, as the Passover meal launched the week-
long Feast of Unleavened Bread, where additional lunches and dinners
each day mandated special provisions (Blomberg 2001, p. 193). Similarly,
the disciples’ inference that Judas left to give something to the poor only
makes sense on Passover eve, the time when such almsgiving was directly
commanded in Jewish tradition.10 That the Gospel did not invent these
particulars is obvious from the fact that, following the Sadducean calendar
instead of the popular Pharisaic calendar observed by Jesus and the Twelve,
it neither regarded the night as Passover eve nor the Last Supper as a
Passover meal (John 13.1; 18.28; 19.31). All this reinforces the historical
probability of the Gospel’s internal testimony that the beloved disciple,
who sat to Jesus’ right at the Last Supper, privately asked Jesus the identity
of his betrayer and received an exclusive answer.
Further information concerning the beloved disciple comes from John

18.15–16, which relates what happened on the heels of Jesus’ arrest by the
Temple police: “Simon Peter and another disciple followed Jesus. Since
that disciple was known to the high priest, he went with Jesus into the
courtyard of the high priest, but Peter was standing outside at the gate. So
the other disciple, who was known to the high priest, went out, spoke to
the woman who guarded the gate, and brought Peter in.” Here we find
that “another disciple,” namely the beloved disciple, went with Jesus after
he had been arrested and, along with the soldiers, their officer, and the
Temple police, accompanied Jesus directly into the courtyard of the high
priest. This disciple cleared security at the gate of the high priest’s palace
because he personally knew the high priest. Such knowledge leads me to
offer the supposition that the beloved disciple was a priest himself who
ministered in the Temple. In this case, the high priest would have been the
beloved disciple’s supervisor in his sacerdotal duties. The historicity of the
beloved disciple’s relationship to the high priest is substantiated by the
criterion of dissimilarity, for, as Brown observes, “to invent a disciple of
Jesus who inexplicably was acceptable at the palace of the high priest is to
create a difficulty where there was none” (1970, p. 841).
Here it should be observed that the beloved disciple, if a Temple priest,
would have insider knowledge as to the meetings of the Sanhedrin, which
occurred at the Temple; as we shall see, it is precisely this kind of knowl-
edge that permeates the Fourth Gospel. Since priests made up the religio-
political party of the Sadducees, the beloved disciple would have used the
Sadducean calendar, as evinced in his dating of the Last Supper one night
before the Passover was eaten (John 13.1; 18.28; 19.31) (Tresmontant
1989, pp. 291–92). The beloved disciple’s priestly vocation, if accurate,
would additionally render impossible his identification as the Apostle
John, a Galilean fisherman who certainly could not have been known to
the high priest. We also suspect that the beloved disciple was not the
Apostle John through the Synoptic report that, excepting Peter, the
Twelve Apostles forsook Jesus and fled at his arrest (Mark 14.50, 54;
Matt. 26.56, 58), which is clearly historical by the criterion of embarrass-
ment. This Gospel furnishes a solution to the otherwise perplexing datum,
also historical by the criterion of embarrassment, that Peter was in the
courtyard of the high priest and there denied Jesus three times (John
18.17–18, 25–27; Mark 14.66–72; Matt. 26.69–75; Luke 22.54–62). For
Peter gained admission to the courtyard through the beloved disciple’s
instruction to the female officer tending the gate, whom the beloved
14 K. R. MACGREGOR
disciple obviously knew, to let Peter in. The beloved disciple’s acquain-
tance with the female officer makes sense on my proposal since he, as a
priest, would have surely been invited to the high priest’s palace on several
previous occasions.
The internal evidence proceeds to indicate that, while Jesus was cruci-
fied, the beloved disciple stood near the cross with Jesus’ mother Mary,
Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. From the cross, Jesus
entrusted his mother Mary to the care of the beloved disciple such that a
mother-son bond would henceforth exist between them, with Mary living
in the home of the beloved disciple:
Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his moth-
er’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw
his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to
his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here
is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own
home. (John 19.25–27)
The proximity of the beloved disciple and the women to the cross is not
improbable, since such was the very point of the trilingual titulus Pilate
had affixed to the cross, which read in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek, “Jesus
of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19.19). Pilate had the inscrip-
tion published for the maximum possible audience precisely in the knowl-
edge that people would come near enough the cross to read it, for in so
doing Pilate hoped the Jewish pilgrims would abandon any future expec-
tation for a messiah and be gripped with fear to rebel against Roman
power. Consequently, if people were close enough to the cross to read a
sign, they would also be close enough to hear Jesus’ utterances from the
cross, a phenomenon which is attested by all four Gospels (John 19.26–30;
Mark 15.34–37; Matt. 27.46–50; Luke 23.39–46) (Carson 1991,
pp. 615–16). The centurion and his cohort of soldiers stood at the foot of
the cross to prevent anyone from taking Jesus’ body down from the cross
or otherwise attempting to stop his execution.
Talbert reveals precedent for Jesus’ testamentary disposition from the
cross in Tobit 7.10–13, where Raguel entrusted his daughter Sarah in
marriage to Tobias in the similarly desperate situation of her previous
seven husbands having died on their wedding night (Talbert 1992,
p. 244). Thus, Raguel gave Sarah to Tobias with these words: “Take your
kinswoman; from now on you are her brother and she is your sister. She is
given to you from today and forever” (Tobit 7.11). The historical plausi-
bility of Jesus’ request for the beloved disciple to take Mary into his house
is bolstered by the likelihood that her husband Joseph had died by the
time of the crucifixion, as his complete absence in the passion narratives of
John and the other Gospels suggests. In that case, Jesus would definitely
need to ensure, as Blomberg correctly surmises, “that his mother Mary
would be adequately cared for by a male head of household in the patriar-
chal culture of first-century Israel. If his biological siblings had not yet
come to faith, it would only be natural for him to choose his most beloved
disciple…to care for his mother” (2001, p. 252).
The beloved disciple then claimed to have seen a Roman soldier pierce
Jesus’ side with a lance after his death, causing blood and water to flow
out: “But when the soldiers came to Jesus and saw that he was already
dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced his
side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out. The one
having seen this has testified. His testimony is true, and he knows that he
tells the truth, so that you also may believe” (John 19.32–35). According
to the first-century Roman rhetorician Quintilian, the spear-thrust into
the side was the final assurance of death by crucifixion (Declamationes
maiores 6.9). Likely never having encountered water flow out of a person’s
wound alongside blood and thus probably thinking it miraculous, the
beloved disciple was quick to assure his readers that he actually eyewit-
nessed this event. However, modern medicine enables us to confirm the
accuracy of the beloved disciple’s description and to explain its physiologi-
cal significance.
The medical studies on this topic show that the lance went through the
right lung and into the heart; when the lance was pulled out, clear fluid—
the pleural effusion and the pericardial effusion—came out, which had the
appearance of water. The pleural effusion proceeded from the fluid-filled
space between the two pleural layers that surround the lungs, while the
pericardial effusion proceeded from the pericardium (the sac that sur-
rounds the heart). This would have been followed by a large volume of
blood coming from the right side of the heart (Ball 1989, pp. 77–83;
Davis 1965, pp. 183–87; Edwards et al. 1986, pp. 1455–63; Jewell and
Didden 1979, pp. 3–5; Maslen and Mitchell 2006, pp. 185–88). Since the
watery fluid emerged prior to the blood, we may wonder why the beloved
disciple wrote αἷμα καὶ ὕδωρ (blood and water) instead of vice versa (John
19.34). The reason was twofold: to emphasize the surprising presence of
the “water” (i.e., to say “not just blood, but blood and water”) and to
Another random document with
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De sorte que plus que tout, je crois le sentiment de ma dignité
arrêta mon élan.
Slang achevait tranquillement sa toilette qu’il compléta par une
cravate écossaise, un gilet de piqué blanc, un veston de cheviotte
bleue ; il coiffa un chapeau melon en feutre gris, prit une badine de
bambou puis sortit d’un tiroir une paire de gants jaunes qui n’avaient
jamais été ouverts et que, précautionneusement, il garda à demi
ployés dans sa main.
Cependant, il se souvint qu’il avait oublié quelque chose dans
ses vêtements de travail : c’était un portefeuille en cuir fauve, tout
bourré de papiers qu’il glissa furtivement dans sa poche comme s’il
eût craint que je pusse apercevoir ce qu’il contenait.
Puis il consulta sa montre :
— Hurrah ! s’écria-t-il, j’ai encore le temps de prendre le train de
onze heures quarante-six… Au revoir, fellow !… Va déjeuner dans le
pays… tu trouveras à l’angle de Sussex-Street et de Wimbledon-
Place un petit restaurant pas cher où le stout est excellent… Je te
dirais bien de rester ici… mais tu comprends, ce n’est pas
possible… Tant que je suis là, ça va bien, mais en mon absence,
Betzy pourrait trouver cela drôle… Je rentrerai probablement vers
cinq heures… six heures au plus tard… Allons ! good bye ! tâche de
ne pas t’enivrer…
Et Slang, après m’avoir donné une vigoureuse poignée de main,
partit d’un pas rapide.
Du seuil de la grille, je le vis s’éloigner, s’engager dans l’avenue
qui conduit à la gare, puis disparaître entre les arbres.
Mes yeux n’avaient pas quitté ses semelles. Il me semblait
qu’avec elles cet homme emportait tout mon bien !
Ce que l’on va lire maintenant paraîtra peut-être invraisemblable
à certains lecteurs. Je les supplie, ceux-là, de me faire crédit de
quelque confiance ; ils verront par la suite si j’ai dénaturé ou surfait
quoi que ce soit dans une affaire qui fut certainement la plus
compliquée de toutes celles que j’eus à instruire, durant ma carrière
déjà longue de détective amateur.
V
MAUVAIS DÉPART
Sans perdre une minute, je pris, comme on dit, mes jambes à

mon cou dans la direction du petit bois qui m’avait déjà servi d’asile
et j’en sortis presque aussitôt transformé en parfait gentleman.
J’avais même eu la chance de retrouver mon chapeau.
Au lieu de rentrer chez moi, je me dirigeai précipitamment chez
un marchand d’automobiles nommé Bloxham qui demeurait à
l’entrée de la ville et je pénétrai dans son garage en hurlant :
— Bloxham !… Bloxham !…
Un petit homme aux yeux bigles sortit de derrière une auto dont il
était en train de regonfler les pneus et me regarda d’un air ahuri :
— Qu’y a-t-il pour votre service, monsieur ? demanda-t-il en se
découvrant.
— Voyons… avez-vous donc perdu la tête, Bloxham ?
Comment ? vous ne me reconnaissez pas ?
— Non monsieur… c’est-à-dire qu’il me semble bien vous avoir
déjà vu quelque part… mais…
Je songeai aussitôt à mon maquillage que je n’avais pas eu le
temps d’enlever :
— Je vous dirai mon nom tout à l’heure… pour le moment
contentez-vous de savoir que j’exige de vous un service… il faut que
j’arrive à Melbourne avant le train qui part de Broad-West à onze
heures quarante-six.
Le petit homme tressauta comme s’il eût été surpris par un
courant électrique, et ses deux pupilles vinrent affleurer la racine de
son nez.
— Vous n’y pensez pas ! s’écria-t-il en se retournant vers
l’horloge placée dans le fond du garage… il est exactement onze
heures quarante-deux ; le train va partir dans quatre minutes.
— Il le faut, vous dis-je… Je paierai ce qu’il faudra… et d’avance
encore… Avez-vous une voiture prête ?
— Celle-ci… mais il faut que je regonfle un pneu…
— Faites vite alors !…
— Je vous assure, monsieur…
— M’avez-vous entendu, Bloxham ?
— Vraiment c’est impossible… oui, c’est réellement impossible…
grognait le petit homme en ajustant son raccord sur la valve… il
faudrait faire du quatre-vingt-dix de moyenne…
— On fera du cent s’il le faut ! m’écriai-je…
Et pendant que le pauvre Bloxham actionnait désespérément sa
pompe, je pris un seau, allai le remplir à une fontaine et, me servant
de mon mouchoir en guise de serviette, j’enlevai rapidement l’affreux
enduit qui me barbouillait le visage.
— Eh bien ! me reconnaissez-vous maintenant ? demandai-je en
m’approchant.
— Oh ! Monsieur Dickson… Quelle surprise !… Ah ! par
exemple !… Si jamais j’aurais pu penser que c’était vous, ce vilain
individu… pardon… je voulais dire…
— C’est bon… hâtez-vous…
— Du moment que c’est pour vous obliger, monsieur Dickson, je
ferai l’impossible…
Et de fait, Bloxham se mit à pomper avec une énergie
désespérée.
Cet homme me devait quelque reconnaissance, car je m’étais
récemment occupé pour lui d’une affaire assez embrouillée, dans
laquelle il se trouvait compromis, quoiqu’il fût tout à fait innocent, et
j’avais fini par mettre la main sur les vrais coupables.
J’avais sauvé la réputation de Bloxham et j’étais sûr qu’il ferait
tout pour sauvegarder la mienne.
— Vite !… vite !… activons, m’écriai-je après avoir regardé ma
montre… nous n’avons plus qu’une minute…
— C’est prêt, monsieur Dickson, répondit Bloxham en dévissant
son raccord… Montez, nous allons partir aussitôt.
Et il appela :
— Jarry ! Jarry !
Une figure cramoisie s’encadra dans un guichet.
— Surveillez le garage… Jarry… je m’absente pour quelques
heures… et surtout si M. Sharper veut encore essayer la vingt-
quatre chevaux, dites qu’elle est en réparation.
— All right ! répondit l’individu qu’il avait interpellé… on aura
l’œil…
Déjà, Bloxham avait donné un tour de manivelle et le moteur
battait avec une trépidation sonore.
Il sauta au volant, actionna le levier de mise en marche et nous
partîmes.
A ce moment même, un coup de sifflet strident nous annonçait
l’arrivée en gare du rapide de onze heures quarante-six.
La distance qui sépare Melbourne de Broad-West n’est que de
quarante-deux kilomètres par chemin de fer, mais on en compte
cinquante-trois par la route qui décrit de nombreuses courbes et au
milieu de laquelle se trouve une côte de douze cents mètres
excessivement rapide.
De plus, — et là était la difficulté — le rapide qui ne s’arrête plus
entre Broad-West et la capitale de l’État de Victoria met juste vingt-
cinq minutes pour effectuer le parcours.
Il fallait donc que nous le gagnions de vitesse.
Avec une quarante chevaux comme celle que nous montions, la
chose était facile, en admettant que nous ne rencontrions sur la
route aucun encombrement et que nous traversions à toute allure
Long-House et Merry-Town, deux petites localités assez désertes,
situées sur notre passage.
Pendant sept kilomètres environ, nous longeâmes la voie du
chemin de fer et je pus constater avec un vrai bonheur que nous
« semions » le rapide, mais il nous fallut bientôt nous engager dans
un chemin sinueux et aborder la fameuse côte de Devil, dont la
pente, d’après les cartes, est de vingt pour cent !
L’auto de Bloxham enleva la rampe en troisième et dévala
ensuite vers Long-House à une allure fantastique.
Le rapide devait être à cette minute très loin derrière nous et je
jubilais intérieurement, en songeant à la tranquillité de Slang, qui
était à cent lieues de se douter qu’un détective allait le prendre en
filature au débarcadère de Melbourne pour ne plus le lâcher d’une
semelle.
Mon plan était simple.
Je m’attacherais à ses pas, ou si besoin était, je le ferais suivre
par des agents secrets, ma modeste personne, quelque active
qu’elle fût, n’étant pas encore parvenue à se dédoubler.
Il fallait, en effet, avant de mettre les menottes à mon « pseudo-
cousin », recueillir certains indices qui m’étaient indispensables.
L’assassin de M. Ugo Chancer pouvait avoir des complices. Je me
trouverais alors avoir affaire à une bande puissamment organisée
pour le cambriolage et le vol.
Si cela était, la découverte d’une association de malfaiteurs, sur
d’aussi faibles indices, me classerait définitivement parmi les plus
fins limiers de police et une pensée d’orgueil intime, autant que de
curiosité professionnelle, m’aiguillonnait de plus en plus à mesure
que nous approchions de Melbourne.
Oui, plus je réfléchissais, plus j’arrivais à me persuader que
j’allais me trouver en présence d’une sorte de Robber’s Company
semblable à celle de Brisbane.
Slang paraissait trop sot pour avoir conduit seul cette affaire…
Cependant il était l’instrument du meurtre, tout en témoignait et il
importait d’élucider promptement ce qui restait de ténébreux dans
l’exécution d’un crime aussi habilement conçu.
Et d’abord, il n’était pas admissible que le voleur-assassin s’en
fût allé sans tirer aucun profit de son crime.
Nous avions trouvé dans le secrétaire de M. Ugo Chancer une
forte somme en or, mais il n’était pas croyable que la fortune du
vieux de Green-Park se réduisît à cent quatre-vingt-trois livres en
monnaie courante.
Il devait avoir des titres déposés chez un ou plusieurs hommes
d’affaires, comme l’insinuait le chief-inspector Bailey.
Peut-être ?
Mais cela n’expliquait pas le geste, véritablement par trop
désintéressé, du cambrioleur assassin.
De toute façon, il était urgent que j’entrasse en relations avec
l’homme d’affaires de la victime ; or un hasard providentiel m’avait,
on le sait, livré le nom de M. R. C. Withworth, 18, Fitzroy Street, à
Melbourne.
Je devais donc m’adresser à ce M. Withworth qui envoyait au
défunt des plis cachetés et semblait être, sinon le confident, du
moins l’intermédiaire entre M. Ugo Chancer et les différentes
banques d’Australie.
Nous venions de dépasser Merry-Town et nous apercevions déjà
les premières maisons de Melbourne, quand notre automobile eut
soudain des ratés.
Cela se traduisit d’abord par quelques explosions rapides et
bruyantes qui peu à peu s’atténuèrent pour se changer en un
pénible crachotement de valétudinaire.
C’était la panne ! l’affreuse panne devenue pourtant si rare
aujourd’hui grâce aux merveilleux perfectionnements de l’industrie
automobile.
J’avais pâli et Bloxham avait proféré un mot énergique que la
bienséance ne me permet pas de reproduire ici…
— Voyez vite ce que c’est ! m’écriai-je en secouant mon
malheureux conducteur par le bras.
Bloxham sauta sur la route, releva le capot de la voiture et se mit
à examiner les quatre cylindres.
— Eh bien ? demandai-je…
— C’est l’allumage qui ne se fait plus, répondit-il, le nez sur le
moteur.
— Vérifiez vite… by God !
— Les bougies sont en bon état…
— Votre huile donne bien ?
— Oui…
— Alors ?
Tout à coup, il se frappa le front d’un geste désespéré, courut au
réservoir de cuivre placé à l’arrière de la voiture, en dévissa
rapidement le bouchon et s’écria, après avoir jeté un coup d’œil
dans l’intérieur :
— Il n’y a plus d’essence, monsieur Dickson !…
J’eus envie de sauter sur cet homme, de le prendre à la gorge et
de l’étrangler comme un poulet…
Fort heureusement, je me contins et ma rage s’exhala en injures
et en imprécations.
— Je croyais que nous aurions assez d’essence, monsieur
Dickson, balbutiait Bloxham en se frappant la poitrine à coups
redoublés comme un gorille aux abois.
— Vous croyiez ! vous croyiez !… Ah ! idiot ! crétin ! triple brute !…
Vous mériteriez… A cause de vous un assassin des plus dangereux
va m’échapper… Je vais être perdu de réputation… Je…
Le sifflet narquois du rapide passant à quelques mètres de la
route me coupa la phrase sur les lèvres et me jeta dans un état de
fureur indescriptible…
Si encore j’avais pu télégraphier, téléphoner à la gare de
Melbourne… Mais non, nous étions à trois milles au moins de Merry-
Town et le train serait arrivé avant que j’eusse atteint le bureau de
poste de cette localité.
J’étais hors de moi… Je trépignais comme un enfant à qui on a
volé ses billes, et un facteur qui passait sur la route me prit sans
doute pour un fou, car il s’enfuit de toute la vitesse de ses jambes.
Quant à Bloxham il s’était accroupi dans la poussière et poussait
des cris déchirants.
Je regrette qu’un photographe amateur ne nous ait pas pris à ce
moment avec son kodak car cela aurait fait un cliché des plus
amusants pour le Great Humoristicou l’Australian Jester.
Enfin je me calmai et regardai ma montre.
Il était exactement midi dix et l’express allait entrer en gare de
Melbourne…
— Tout n’est peut-être pas perdu… pensai-je. Il se peut fort bien
que mon Slang revienne à la villa Crawford… Somme toute, il n’a
aucune raison de se méfier… Pourquoi s’enfuirait-il ? Ce serait
avouer son crime…
Et j’en arrivai presque à me persuader que je le retrouverais le
soir, dans le petit pavillon dont il m’avait fait les honneurs avec une
cordialité si touchante.
En tout cas, puisque je l’avais laissé échapper, il fallait que je
continuasse mon enquête, que je visse M. Withworth et le chief-
inspector de Melbourne. Et qui sait si je ne rencontrerais pas ce
bandit de Slang dans quelque rue de la ville ? C’était un alcoolique
invétéré et il serait bien surprenant qu’il ne fît pas de nombreuses
stations dans les bars de Collingswood ou de Northcote.
— Combien d’ici à Melbourne ? demandai-je à Bloxham qui se
lamentait toujours dans la poussière.
— Quatre milles, monsieur Dickson… bégaya le pauvre homme
en agitant ses petits bras pareils à des ailerons.
— C’est bien… je vais les faire à pied. Excusez-moi, Bloxham, si
je vous ai un peu malmené tout à l’heure, mais je ne vous en veux
plus… Combien vous dois-je ?
— Vous plaisantez, monsieur Dickson… D’ailleurs je n’accepterai
jamais de vous quoi que ce soit… je vous dois trop pour cela… Ah !
quelle fatalité, by God ! quelle fatalité ! Pour une fois que je voulais
vous être agréable !
— L’occasion se représentera, Bloxham, soyez-en sûr… Et
tenez… puisque vous désirez m’obliger, il y a un moyen…
— Oh ! dites, monsieur Dickson !
— C’est d’avoir toujours dans votre garage de Broad-West une
voiture prête à partir… une voiture avec de l’essence… par
exemple…
— Comptez sur moi, monsieur Dickson… et veuillez encore une
fois agréer toutes mes excuses…
— Vous êtes tout excusé, mon ami, répondis-je en donnant au
malheureux chauffeur une tape amicale dans le dos — ce qui eut
pour effet de soulever un affreux nuage de poussière — et croyez
que je regrette vivement les qualificatifs un peu désobligeants dont
je me suis servi à votre endroit… Allons, good bye !… J’irai
probablement vous rendre visite ce soir…
Et après m’être épousseté tant bien que mal avec mon mouchoir,
je me dirigeai pédestrement vers Melbourne.
VI
L’HOMME D’AFFAIRES DE FITZROY-
STREET
Je ne sais s’il est arrivé à quelqu’un de mes lecteurs de quitter

tout à coup, pour cause de panne, une confortable automobile et de
faire dans la poussière, sous un soleil de plomb, quatre milles
anglais, ce qui représente exactement quatre fois seize cent neuf
mètres, c’est-à-dire une bonne lieue et demie de France.
Cela manque de charme, surtout pour un détective qui a caressé
un instant l’idée de « pincer » un criminel et qui voit soudain ce
criminel prendre sur lui une avance considérable.
La nature m’a heureusement doué d’une certaine dose de
philosophie, sans quoi, dans différentes circonstances, j’aurais,
comme on dit, jeté bien souvent le manche après la cognée.
Mais j’ai du ressort : je ressemble un peu à ces stayers qui
reprennent de la vigueur et de l’énergie en apercevant le poteau… et
dont les superbes efforts déconcertent toutes les prévisions.
Mon overcoat sous le bras, j’avalai donc mes quatre milles et
quand je pénétrai dans le faubourg de Richmond qui mène à
Melbourne-Ville, il était exactement une heure trente-cinq.
Hélant alors un hansom qui maraudait en cherchant l’ombre, je
me fis conduire à Wilson-Hall, dans une petite rue où je savais
trouver un lavatory.
Une fois rasé, coiffé, brossé, ciré, je remontai en voiture en jetant
cette adresse au cabman :
— 18, Fitzroy-Street.
L’homme acquiesça d’un signe, éteignit sa pipe qu’il avait
allumée pendant que je me faisais bichonner et enleva son cheval
d’un vigoureux claquement de langue.
Le hansom partit comme un trait, traversa à toute allure Victoria-
Parade, longea la cathédrale Saint-Paul, Albert-Park et Gressington,
puis ralentit brusquement devant un immeuble de huit étages.
— Stop ! dis-je au cabman.
— Well ! fit l’homme en rallumant sa pipe et en tirant de dessous
son siège un numéro du Melbourne Magazine.
La maison devant laquelle je me trouvais semblait de haut en bas
être habitée bourgeoisement.
A ma grande surprise, je ne voyais ni sur la porte d’entrée ni sur
les balcons de la façade aucune de ces plaques de tôle vernie ou
émaillée qui signalent ordinairement les maisons de banque et
d’affaires ou les officiers ministériels. Je ne découvris rien autre que
la lanterne rouge d’un médecin [5] .
[5] En Angleterre et en Australie les médecins mettent
à leur porte une lanterne rouge semblable à celle de nos
commissariats.
N. de l’A.
Pourtant, je pénétrai sous le vestibule afin de consulter la liste

des locataires, et j’y trouvai, à ma grande satisfaction, l’indication
que je désirais.
Third floor. — C. A. Withworth.

Agent.
Je grimpai quatre à quatre les escaliers et sonnai à une grande

porte brune à deux battants.
Une accorte petite bonne vint m’ouvrir. Je lui remis ma carte
qu’elle lut aussitôt avec un sans-gêne qui me surprit un peu, puis
elle disparut dans un couloir très sombre, éclairé par une lanterne en
fer forgé représentant un satyre jouant de la flûte.
Quelques instants après, elle reparaissait, me faisait signe de la
suivre et m’introduisait dans un cabinet de travail où un
amoncellement d’objets de toutes sortes que je distinguai mal en
entrant, interceptait ou plutôt absorbait la lumière.
Un vieillard de petite taille se tenait debout dans la partie la plus
éclairée, devant une table de vieux chêne : il était chenu et très
barbu, à la façon de ces singes de l’Inde qu’on appelle gibbons.
C’est du moins l’impression que j’en eus tout d’abord.
— Monsieur Withworth ? demandai-je.
— C’est moi, répondit le vieillard en me désignant un siège.
Je m’assis.
Le haut fauteuil sur lequel j’avais pris place me paraissait être un
de ces meubles de musée disgracieux et incommodes auxquels
l’ancienneté seule donne quelque valeur.
L’occupant du lieu me faisait aussi plutôt l’effet d’un
collectionneur que d’un businessman, car je distinguai, derrière lui,
entre deux bahuts en bois sculpté, la haute silhouette d’une armure
érigée toute droite, une hallebarde au gantelet.
M. Withworth attendait que je l’instruisisse du motif de ma visite
et il me faisait de petits signes interrogateurs tout en rajustant sa
robe de chambre.
— Vous savez qui je suis ? dis-je d’un ton confidentiel.
Mon interlocuteur inclina la tête.
— Et vous savez également que M. Ugo Chancer, de Green-
Park, est mort ?
— J’ai fait frapper d’opposition tous les titres que possédait le
défunt.
— Vous allez au-devant de ma question, monsieur ; ainsi vous
étiez l’homme d’affaires de ce pauvre M. Chancer ?
— Son homme de confiance, oui… je m’occupais de ses
placements… M. Ugo Chancer était mon meilleur ami.
— Tout va bien alors et je me félicite du hasard qui m’a mis en
possession de votre adresse… Vous voyiez souvent M. Chancer ?
— Il y a vingt-cinq ans que je ne l’ai vu ; mais il était, je vous le
répète, mon meilleur ami ;… nos relations s’entretenaient par
correspondance.
— Alors vous êtes absolument au courant de la situation de
fortune de M. Chancer ?
— Oui… j’opérais en son nom toutes les ventes et tous les
achats de valeurs.
— Vous devez avoir les numéros de ses titres ?
— Tous, oui monsieur.
— Mais pas les titres ?
— Non… M. Ugo Chancer les gardait chez lui.
— Ils ont donc été volés ?
— Je l’ai pensé, c’est pourquoi je les ai fait frapper d’opposition.
— C’est une sage précaution qui pourra nous être fort utile pour
la suite de l’affaire. Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais votre opinion n’est-
elle pas que M. Ugo Chancer a été assassiné ?
— Je n’ai pas d’opinion… c’est à la police de m’en faire une… j’ai
agi comme je croyais devoir le faire… voilà tout.
— Et vous avez été très bien inspiré, monsieur… Mon avis à moi
c’est que M. Chancer a été victime d’un cambrioleur-assassin… et je
suis en ce moment sur une piste.
— Que vous croyez bonne ?
— Oui…
— Allons, tant mieux !
— Je dois d’abord vous dire que je me suis livré à une
perquisition chez le défunt et que je n’ai trouvé en tout et pour tout
que cent quatre-vingt-trois livres en or.
— M. Chancer, je vous le répète, gardait par devers lui tous les
certificats de ses actions et obligations. Mon honorable ami était fort
imprudent… Il n’avait pas même de coffre-fort. Je sais qu’il serrait
ses papiers dans un petit meuble de son cabinet de travail, meuble
très rare que je lui vendis autrefois pour un prix dérisoire.
— Un secrétaire en bois de rose ?
— Parfaitement… un secrétaire qui provenait de la succession de
sir Walter Raleigh…
— C’est bien en effet dans l’un des tiroirs de ce meuble que j’ai
découvert les piles d’or dont je vous ai parlé.
— Les titres devaient s’y trouver également… Vous êtes
détective… concluez…
— J’ai toujours cru à un vol.
— Oui, l’argent monnayé que vous avez vu chez ce pauvre
Chancer a été abandonné à dessein… pour donner le change.
— C’est aussi mon avis, monsieur.
Le petit vieux parut réfléchir un instant puis il reprit :
— Une chose me frappe en outre dans ce que vous m’avez dit…
c’est le peu d’importance de la somme trouvée dans le secrétaire.
— Cent quatre-vingt-trois livres.
— Je sais… M. Chancer qui était un original conservait toujours
chez lui dix ou quinze mille livres en or… et chose qui est à retenir, il
marquait toutes ses pièces… c’était une manie… qu’il avait !… Ah ! il
était si bizarre, ce pauvre ami !
Je tendis à M. Withworth les quatre souverains que j’avais, la
veille, glissés dans la poche de mon gilet.
Le vieillard s’approcha de la fenêtre et les considéra longuement
au jour.
Ensuite, il prit une grosse loupe sur la table et examina
minutieusement chaque pièce.
— Ces souverains n’ont jamais appartenu à M. Chancer, déclara-
t-il.
— Comment cela ?
— C’est la vérité… Je vous l’ai dit, mon honorable ami avait une
manie : il marquait tout son or d’un signe à lui.
M. Withworth m’appela près de la fenêtre et me mettant en main
la loupe et une des pièces d’or :
— Remarquez, dit-il, qu’il n’y a rien sur le cou de la Reine…
— ??
— Oui… M. Chancer avait un poinçon très fin, une imperceptible
étoile à six branches qu’il gravait sur toutes ses pièces du côté face,
à la section du cou et de la figure.
J’admirai le stratagème du défunt et lui décernai mentalement
des louanges posthumes pour m’avoir fourni ainsi des armes de
premier ordre.
M. Withworth jeta violemment l’une après l’autre les quatre
pièces sur un petit meuble d’ébène.
— D’ailleurs, dit-il, ces souverains sont faux…
Et il fit dans l’un d’eux une petite incision avec la pointe de son
canif.
— Ils sont, poursuivit-il, composés d’un alliage sans valeur, mais
assez bien imités… c’est du beau travail de faux-monnayeur…
Si mon opinion n’avait pas été faite, je n’aurais plus eu de doutes
à cette heure ; Slang n’était pas de taille à avoir combiné seul un vol
aussi savant.
Slang n’était qu’un comparse, l’exécuteur d’une association de
malfaiteurs adroits qui préparaient leurs coups dans l’ombre avec
toutes les ressources de la science et d’une imagination cultivée.
Il paierait cet honneur de sa tête… soit… mais c’était insuffisant.
Je devais à l’honneur de mon nom de démasquer les véritables
coupables, c’est-à-dire les bénéficiaires de cet attentat sans
précédent.
J’eus tout de suite dressé mes batteries.
— Voulez-vous me permettre, dis-je à M. Withworth, de relever
les numéros des titres qui étaient la propriété de M. Chancer ?
— Mais certainement, monsieur, me répondit le vieillard en se
dirigeant vers un cartonnier surmonté d’une potiche japonaise.
Et il me soumit un registre où se trouvaient méthodiquement
consignées les particularités afférentes à chaque valeur : séries,
numéros d’ordre, dates et prix d’achat, montant du revenu, nombre
de coupons demeurés au titre lors de l’acquisition, etc…
Ces renseignements étaient précieux et je les consignai
scrupuleusement sur mon calepin.
Tandis que j’écrivais, d’un rapide calcul de tête j’évaluais le
chiffre de la fortune de M. Chancer.
Elle se montait à quatre cent mille livres sterling !…
Il était évident que ce Pactole ne s’était pas englouti dans la
poche du seul Slang, chauffeur.
Après avoir remercié M. Withworth de l’amabilité avec laquelle il
s’était mis à ma disposition, je m’apprêtais à prendre, congé, quand
il me retint par la manche :
— Vous savez, dit-il, j’ai ici des objets merveilleux que vous ne
trouverez nulle part, pas même à Londres… Voici un buste de
Napoléon attribué à Hudson Lowe, une statuette de Nelson par Van
den Brocke, un chiffonnier ayant appartenu à Marie-Antoinette… un
manuscrit de Cromwell… le portrait du prince Albert, par Sweet…
J’ai aussi de fort jolis meubles moyen âge, des faïences italiennes
du seizième siècle et tenez… voici quelque chose qui ferait très bien
sur la cheminée de votre bureau : la tête de James Blomfield Rush,
pendu à Norfolk en avril 1849… Cette tête a été moulée par
Higghins, une heure après l’exécution…
— Merci… fis-je… une autre fois… très curieux, en effet… Je
reviendrai certainement vous rendre visite, quand je serai moins
pressé…
— Dans l’attente de vos ordres, monsieur Dickson, répondit le
petit vieux en me remettant sa carte… Ici tous les objets vendus sont
garantis authentiques… et comme vous vous occupez de l’affaire de
Green-Park je vous ferai exceptionnellement des prix d’ami…
Décidément, quoiqu’il s’en défendît, ce M. Withworth était un
homme d’affaires et il savait profiter de toutes les circonstances.
Malheureusement il tombait mal, car j’avais d’autres
préoccupations en tête.
— Ah ! s’il eût offert de me vendre la piste de Slang, je la lui
aurais payée à prix d’or !
Muni des précieux renseignements qu’il m’avait donnés en ce qui
concernait les titres et les souverains de M. Chancer, je me rendis
en hâte au Police-Office, certain que j’allais émerveiller le chief-
inspector et l’édifier une fois de plus sur l’incapacité de ses agents.
VII
CHEZ MR COXCOMB, CHIEF-
INSPECTOR
— Le chief-inspector ? demandai-je à un policeman qui somnolait

sur une chaise.
— Il est occupé, sir.
— C’est très urgent… faites-lui passer ma carte.
Le policeman eut un bâillement, se frotta les yeux de ses grosses
mains rouges, prit ma carte et disparut derrière une porte
capitonnée.
Quelques instants après, il revenait et me disait d’un ton
maussade :
— M. le chief-inspector est avec quelqu’un…
— En a-t-il pour longtemps ?
— Je n’en sais rien…
— C’est très urgent, insistai-je…
Cette fois le policeman ne répondit pas.
Je compris à son attitude que le chief-inspector avait dû, en
recevant ma carte, se livrer sur mon compte à quelque réflexion
désobligeante et le sous-ordre, persuadé que je n’étais qu’un
personnage de médiocre importance, en prenait maintenant à son
aise avec moi.
Au bout de trois quarts d’heure d’attente, je fus cependant admis
dans le bureau de M. Coxcomb, le grand maître de la police de
Melbourne.
C’était un homme d’un certain âge, à l’air intelligent, mais qui
était affligé d’un tic plutôt bizarre : une sorte de moue dédaigneuse
compliquée d’un plissement de la joue, de sorte qu’à certains
moments la pointe de sa moustache allait caresser son oreille droite.
Je déclinai mes nom et qualité, mais dès les premiers mots il
m’arrêta :
— Cela suffit, dit-il… quels renseignements venez-vous
m’apporter ?
— Je me suis occupé de l’affaire de Green-Park et…
Le chief-inspector eut un imperceptible haussement d’épaules :
— Nous sommes fixés sur cette affaire, monsieur… et j’ai
quelques raisons de croire que l’instruction va en être close… Il n’y a
eu ni assassinat ni vol…
— Pardon… fis-je avec énergie.
Le magistrat ne me laissa pas achever.
— Oui, je sais… vous appartenez à la police privée, monsieur
Dickson, et si l’on écoutait tous les rapports de la police privée, nous
arrêterions une bonne moitié de Melbourne.
J’insistai :
— Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais je ne partage pas votre avis en
ce qui concerne l’affaire de Green-Park…
— J’en suis fâché, monsieur, mais notre opinion est faite…
— Et si pourtant il y avait eu crime ?
— C’est vous qui le supposez…
— Je ne suppose pas, j’affirme.
Et ma main gantée s’abattit péremptoirement sur la table du
chief-inspector.
— Les rapports des autorités sont là, dit-il en me regardant
ironiquement ; permettez que je leur fasse l’honneur de les prendre
en considération.
Et le chief-inspector se leva pour me reconduire, mais je ne suis
pas homme à me laisser congédier ainsi.
— Vous m’entendrez… insistai-je… oui, vous m’entendrez,
monsieur, en vertu du droit qu’a tout citoyen de déposer devant un
magistrat… Quand je vous dis : « M. Ugo Chancer a été assassiné »
c’est que je suis en mesure de fournir la preuve de ce que j’avance.
— Et cette preuve, monsieur ?
— Est là, dans ma poche.
Cette fois le magistrat se rassit et son tic s’accentua de telle
façon que la pointe de sa moustache dépassa certainement le lobe
de son oreille droite.
Je le sentais toujours hostile, mais mon ton avait fini par lui
imposer quand même.
— Je vous écoute, fit-il.
Je repris lentement :
— Bailey, le chief-inspector de Broad-West qui a fait les
premières constatations au domicile de M. Ugo Chancer n’a relevé
aucune trace d’effraction et il a retrouvé dans le tiroir du secrétaire
une somme de cent quatre-vingt-trois livres…
— Ce sont en effet les termes du rapport.
— Je n’y contredis pas, mais j’ai examiné les lieux, moi aussi…
or j’ai découvert les traces d’une effraction et cela en présence d’un
habitant de Broad-West, M. Gilbert Crawford qui pourra en
témoigner, sous la foi du serment.
— Bien… après ?
— Quant à la somme de cent quatre-vingt-trois livres, elle
n’existe pas…

A Historical and Theological Investigation of Johns Gospel 1St Ed Edition Kirk R Macgregor Full Chapter

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A Historical and Theological Investigation of Johns Gospel 1St Ed Edition Kirk R Macgregor Full Chapter

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A Historical and Theological

Investigation of John's Gospel 1st ed.

ISBN 978-3-030-53400-4 ISBN 978-3-030-53401-1 (eBook)

The purpose of this book is to advance new and underexplored theses on

Signs Source underlying the Fourth Gospel which differs considerably

explore potential Johannine differences between spiritual and political

dialogue between Johannine scholars and scholars of non-Christian reli-

McPherson, KS, USA Kirk R. MacGregor

I would like to thank all my colleagues at McPherson College, who create

anonymous reviewers for their extremely incisive suggestions and critiques

1 Who Is the Author of the Gospel of John, and When

2 What Is the Gospel’s Relationship to Previous Literary

3 What Is the Nature of Jesus’ Oneness with the Father? 93

4 What Does It Mean to “Believe in Him”?109

5 Does “Believing in His Name” Constitute Saving Faith?123

6 How Do We Reconcile Divine Election and Human

7 According to John 8, Did Abraham in His Lifetime

8 What Did Jesus Mean in John 14.6?181

9 What Is the Nature of the Holy Spirit?197

10 Why Did the Resurrected Jesus Upbraid Thomas?207

Kirk R. MacGregor (Ph.D., University of Iowa) is Associate Professor

Who Is the Author of the Gospel of John,

© The Author(s) 2020 1

challenge the assumptions which lead adherents of anonymous authorship

Internal Evidence for the Authorship

wielding the pen or by dictation to an amanuensis, that is, scribal secretary

the first century, when even the assumption’s proponents admit an

A further example of this idiom mirroring John 21.24 is found in Josephus’

As substantiated by the presence of two mutually exclusive and jointly

permanent resident of Jerusalem during the years of Jesus’ ministry

Further information concerning the beloved disciple comes from John

Sans perdre une minute, je pris, comme on dit, mes jambes à

Je ne sais s’il est arrivé à quelqu’un de mes lecteurs de quitter

Pourtant, je pénétrai sous le vestibule afin de consulter la liste

Third floor. — C. A. Withworth.

Je grimpai quatre à quatre les escaliers et sonnai à une grande

— Le chief-inspector ? demandai-je à un policeman qui somnolait

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McPherson, KS, USA Kirk R. MacGregor

1 Who Is the Author of the Gospel of John, and When

2 What Is the Gospel’s Relationship to Previous Literary

3 What Is the Nature of Jesus’ Oneness with the Father? 93

4 What Does It Mean to “Believe in Him”?109

5 Does “Believing in His Name” Constitute Saving Faith?123

6 How Do We Reconcile Divine Election and Human

7 According to John 8, Did Abraham in His Lifetime

8 What Did Jesus Mean in John 14.6?181

9 What Is the Nature of the Holy Spirit?197

10 Why Did the Resurrected Jesus Upbraid Thomas?207