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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Long Arm and Other Detective Stories, an electronic edition
Author: Freeman, Mary Eleanor Wilkins, 1852-1930
Publisher: Chapman and Hall
Place published: London
Date: 1895
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 Front Cover of Freeman's "The Long Arm"Image of spine from Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman's "The Long Arm." Advert included in front of Freeman's "The Long Arm and Other Detective Stories"THE LONG ARMAND Other Detective Stories Frontispiece for Freeman's "The Long Arm"THE LONG ARMBY  MARY E. WILKINSAnd Other Detective Stories BY  GEORGE IRA BRETT PROFESSOR BRANDER MATTHEWS AND ROY TELLETLONDON :CHAPMAN & HALL, LD 1895 All Rights Reservedtable of contents included in front of "The Long Arm"THE LONG ARMBy MARY E. WILKINS.CHAPTER I. 
THE TRAGEDY.(From notes written by Miss Sarah Fairbanks immediately after the report of the Grand Jury.)As I take my pen to write this, I have a feeling that I am in the witness-box--for, or against myself, which? The place of the criminal in the dock I will not voluntarily take. I will affirm neither my innocence nor my guilt. I will present the facts of the case as impartially and as coolly as if I had nothing at stake. I will let all who read this judge me as they will.This I am bound to do, since I am condemned to something infinitely worse than
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the life-cell or the gallows. I will try my own self in lieu of judge and jury; my guilt or my innocence I will prove to you all, if it be in mortal power. In my despair I am tempted to say, I care not which it may be, so something be proved. Open condemnation could not overwhelm me like universal suspicion.Now, first, as I have heard is the custom in the courts of law, I will present the case. I am Sarah Fairbanks, a country school teacher, twenty-nine years of age. My mother died when I was twenty-three. Since then, while I have been teaching at Digby, a cousin of my father's, Rufus Bennett, and his wife have lived with my father. During the long summer vacation they returned to their little farm in Vermont, and I kept house for my father.For five years I have been engaged to be married to Henry Ellis, a young man whom I met in Digby. My father was very much opposed to the match, and has told me repeatedly that if I insisted upon marrying him in his lifetime he would disinherit me. On
 

this account Henry never visited me at my own home; while I could not bring myself to break off my engagement. Finally, I wished to avoid an open rupture with my father. He was quite an old man, and I was the only one he had left of a large family.I believe that parents should honour their children, as well as children their parents; but I had arrived at this conclusion: in nine-tenths of the cases wherein children marry against their parents' wishes, even when the parents have no just grounds for opposition, the marriages are unhappy.I sometimes felt that I was unjust to Henry, and resolved that, if ever I suspected that his fancy turned toward any other girl, I would not hinder it, especially as I was getting older and, I thought, losing my good looks.A little while ago, a young and pretty girl came to Digby to teach the school in the south district. She boarded in the same house with Henry. I heard that he was somewhat attentive to her, and I made up my mind I would not interfere. At the same time it seemed to me that my heart
 

was breaking. I heard her people had money, too, and she was an only child. I had always felt that Henry ought to marry a wife with money, because he had nothing himself, and was not very strong.School closed five weeks ago, and I came home for the summer vacation. The night before I left, Henry came to see me, and urged me to marry him. I refused again; but I never before had felt that my father was so hard and cruel as I did that night. Henry said that he should certainly see me during the vacation, and when I replied that he must not come, he was angry, and said--but such foolish things are not worth repeating. Henry has really a very sweet temper, and would not hurt a fly.The very night of my return home Rufus Bennett and my father had words about some maple sugar which Rufus made on his Vermont farm and sold to father, who made a good trade for it to some people in Boston. That was father's business. He had once kept a store, but had given it up, and sold a few articles that he could make a large profit on
 

here and there at wholesale. He used to send to New Hampshire and Vermont for butter, eggs, and cheese. Cousin Rufus thought father did not allow him enough profit on the maple sugar, and in the dispute father lost his temper, and said that Rufus had given him under weight. At that, Rufus swore an oath, and seized father by the throat. Rufus's wife screamed, "Oh, don't! don't! oh, he'll kill him!"I went up to Rufus and took hold of his arm."Rufus Bennett," said I, "you let go my father!"But Rufus's eyes glared like a madman's, and he would not let go. Then I went to the desk-drawer where father had kept a pistol since some houses in the village were broken into ; I got out the pistol, laid hold of Rufus again, and held the muzzle against his forehead."You let go of my father," said I, "or I'll fire!"Then Rufus let go, and father dropped like a log. He was purple in the face.
 

Rufus's wife and I worked a long time over him to bring him to."Rufus Bennett," said I, "go to the well and get a pitcher of water." He went, but when father had revived and got up, Rufus gave him a look that showed he was not over his rage."I'll get even with you yet, Martin Fairbanks, old man as you are!" he shouted out, and went into the outer room.We got father to bed soon. He slept in the bedroom downstairs, out of the sitting-room. Rufus and his wife had the north chamber, and I had the south one. I left my door open that night, and did not sleep. I listened; no one stirred in the night. Rufus and his wife were up very early in the morning, and before nine o'clock left for Vermont. They had a day's journey, and would reach home about nine in the evening. Rufus's wife bade father good-bye, crying, while Rufus was getting .their trunk downstairs, but Rufus did not go near father nor me. He ate no breakfast; his very back looked ugly when he went out of the yard.That very day about seven in the evening, after tea, I had just washed the dishes and put them away, and went out on the north door-step, where father was sitting, and sat down on the lowest step. There was a cool breeze there; it had been a very hot day."I want to know if that Ellis fellow has been to see you any lately?" said father all at once."Not a great deal," I answered."Did he come to see you the last night you were there?" said father."Yes, sir," said I, "he did come.""If you ever have another word to say to that fellow while I live, I'll kick you out of the house like a dog, daughter of mine though you be," said he. Then he swore a great oath and called God to witness. "Speak to that fellow again, if you dare, while I live!" said he.I did not say a word; I just looked up at him as I sat there. Father turned pale and shrank back, and put his hand to his throat, where Rufus had clutched him. There were some purple finger-marks there."I suppose you would have been glad if he had killed me," father cried out."I saved your life," said I."What did you do with that pistol?" he asked."I put it back in the desk-drawer."I got up and went around and sat on the west doorstep, which is the front one. As I sat there, the bell rang for the Tuesday evening meeting, and Phoebe Dole and Maria Woods, two old maiden ladies, dressmakers, our next-door neighbours, went past on their way to the meeting. Phoebe stopped and asked if Rufus and his wife were gone. Maria went around the house. Very soon they went on, and several other people passed. When they had all gone, it was as still as death.I sat alone a long time, until I could see by the shadows that the full moon had risen. Then I went to my room and went to bed.I lay awake a long time, crying. It seemed to me that all hope of marriage between Henry and me was over. I could not expect him to wait for me. I thought


of that other girl; I could see her pretty face wherever I looked. But at last I cried myself to sleep.At about five o'clock I awoke and got up. Father always wanted his breakfast at six o'clock, and I had to prepare it now.When father and I were alone, he always built the fire in the kitchen stove, but that morning I did not hear him stirring as usual, and I fancied that he must be so out of temper with me, that he would not build the fire.I went to my closet for a dark blue calico dress which I wore to do housework in. It had hung there during all the school term.As I took it off the hook, my attention was caught by something strange about the dress I had worn the night before. This dress was made of thin summer silk; it was green in colour, sprinkled over with white rings. It had been my best dress for two summers, but now I was wearing it on hot afternoons at home, for it was the coolest dress I had. The night before, too, I had thought of the possibility of Henry's driving over from Digby and passing the house. He had done this
 

sometimes during the last summer vacation, and I wished to look my best if he did.As I took down the calico dress I saw what seemed to be a stain on the green silk. I threw on the calico hastily, and then took the green silk and carried it over to the window. It was covered with spots - horrible great splashes and streaks down the front. The right sleeve, too, was stained, and all the stains were wet."What have I got on my dress?" said I.It looked like blood. Then I smelled of it, and it was sickening in my nostrils, but I was not sure what the smell of blood was like. I thought I must have got the stains by some accident the night before."If that is blood on my dress," I said, "I must do something to get it off at once, or the dress will be ruined."It came to my mind that I had been told that blood-stains had been removed from cloth by an application of flour paste on the wrong side. I took my green silk, and ran down the back stairs, which lead--having a door at the foot--directly into the kitchen.There was no fire in the kitchen stove, as I had thought. Everything was very solitary and still, except for the ticking of the clock on the shelf. When I crossed the kitchen to the pantry, however, the cat mewed to be let in from the shed. She had a little door of her own by which she could enter or leave the shed at will, an aperture just large enough for her Maltese body to pass at ease beside the shed door. It had a little lid, too, hung upon a leathern hinge. On my way I let the cat in ; then I went into the pantry and got a bowl of flour. This I mixed with water into a stiff paste, and applied to the under surface of the stains on my dress. I then hung the dress up to dry in the dark end of a closet leading out of the kitchen, which contained some old clothes of father's.Then I made up the fire in the kitchen stove. I made coffee, baked biscuits, and poached some eggs for breakfast.Then I opened the door into the sitting-room and called, "Father, breakfast is ready." Suddenly I started. There was a red stain on the inside of the sitting-room door. My heart


began to beat in my ears. "Father! "I called out--"father!"There was no answer."Father!" I called again, as loud as I could scream. "Why don't you speak? What is the matter?"The door of his bedroom stood open. I had a feeling that I saw a red reflection in there. I gathered myself together and went across the sitting-room to father's bedroom door. His little looking-glass hung over his bureau opposite his bed, which was reflected in it.That was the first thing I saw, when I reached the door. I could see father in the looking-glass and the bed. Father was dead there; he had been murdered in the night.CHAPTER II

THE KNOT OF RIBBON.I THINK I must have fainted away, for presently I found myself on the flour, and for a minute I could not remember what had happened. Then I remembered, and an awful,


unreasoning terror seized me. "I must lock all the doors quick," I thought; "quick, or the murderer will come back."I tried to get up, but I could not stand. I sank down again. I had to crawl out of the room on my hands and knees.I went first to the front door; it was locked with a key and a bolt. I went next to the north door, and that was locked with a key and bolt. I went to the north shed door, and that was bolted. Then I went to the little-used east door in the shed, beside which the cat had her little passage-way, and that was fastened with an iron hook. It has no latch.The whole house was fastened on the inside. The thought struck me like an icy hand, "The murderer is in this house! "I rose to my feet then; I unhooked that door, and ran out of the house, and out of the yard, as for my life.I took the road to the village. The first house, where Phoebe Dole and Maria Woods live, is across a wide field from ours. I did not intend to stop there, for they were only


women, and could do nothing ; but seeing Phoebe looking out of the window, I ran into the yard.She opened the window."What is it?" said she. "What is the matter, Sarah Fairbanks?"Maria Woods came and leaned over her shoulder. Her face looked almost as white as her hair, and her blue eyes were dilated. My face must have frightened her."Father--father is murdered in his bed!" I said.There was a scream, and Maria Woods's face disappeared from over Phoebe Dole's shoulder--she had fainted. I do not know whether Phoebe looked paler--she is always very pale--but I saw in her black eyes a look which I shall never forget. I think she began to suspect me at that moment.Phoebe glanced back at Maria, but she asked me another question."Has he had words with anybody?" said she."Only with Rufus," I said; "but Rufus is gone."Phoebe turned away from the window to attend to Maria, and I ran on to the village.A hundred people can testify what I did next—-can tell how I called for the doctor and the deputy-sheriff ; how I went back to my own home with the horror-stricken crowd ; how they flocked in and looked at poor father ; but only the doctor touched him, very carefully, to see if he were quite dead; how the coroner came, and all the rest.The pistol was in the bed beside father, but it had not been fired ; the charge was still in the barrel. It was blood-stained, and there was one bruise on father's head which might have been inflicted by the pistol, used as a club. But the wound which caused his death was in his breast, and made evidently by some cutting instrument, though the cut was not a clean one; the weapon must have been dull.They searched the house, lest the murderer should be hidden away. I heard Rufus Bennett's name whispered by one and another. Everybody seemed to know that he and father had had words the night before; I could not understand how, because I had told nobody

except Phoebe Dole, who had had no time to spread the news, and I was sure that no one else had spoken of it.They looked in the closet where my green silk dress hung, and pushed it aside to be sure nobody was concealed behind it, but they did not notice anything wrong about it. It was dark in the closet, and besides, they did not look for anything like that until later.All these people—the deputy-sheriff, and afterwards the high sheriff, and other out-of-town officers, for whom they had telegraphed, and the neighbours—-all hunted their own suspicion, and that was Rufus Bennett. All believed he had come back, and killed my father. They fitted all the facts to that belief. They made him do the deed with a long, slender screw-driver, which he had recently borrowed from one of the neighbours and had not returned. They made his finger-marks, which were still on my father's throat, fit the red prints of the sitting-room door. They made sure that he had returned and stolen into the house by the east door shed, while


father and I sat on the doorsteps the evening before; that he had hidden himself away, perhaps in that very closet where my dress hung, and afterwards stolen out and killed my father, and then escaped.They were not shaken when I told them that every door was bolted and barred that morning. They themselves found all the windows fastened down, except a few which were open on account of the heat, and even these last were raised only the width of the sash, and fastened with sticks, so that they could be raised no higher. Father was very cautious about fastening the house, for he sometimes had considerable sums of money by him. The officers saw all these difficulties in the way, but they fitted them somehow to their theory, and two deputy-sheriffs were at once sent to apprehend Rufus.They had not begun to suspect me then, and not the slightest watch was kept on my movements. The neighbours were very kind, and did everything to help me, relieving me altogether of all those last offices—-in this case so much sadder than usual.An inquest was held, and I told freely all I knew, except about the blood-stains on my dress. I hardly knew why I kept that back. I had no feeling then that I might have done the deed myself, and I could not bear to convict myself, if I was innocent.Two of the neighbours, Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Adams, remained with me all that day. Towards evening, when there were very few in the house, they went into the parlour to put it in order for the funeral, and I sat down alone in the kitchen. As I sat there by the window I thought of my green silk dress, and wondered if the stains were out. I went to the closet and brought the dress out to the light. The spots and streaks had almost disappeared. I took the dress out into the shed, and scraped off the flour paste, which was quite dry ; I swept up the paste, burned it in the stove, took the dress upstairs to my own closet, and bung it in its old place. Neighbours remained with me all night.At three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day, which was Thursday, I went over to Phoebe Dole's to see about a black dress


to wear at the funeral. The neighbours had urged me to have my black silk dress altered a little, and trimmed with crape.I found only Maria Woods at home. When she saw me she gave a little scream, and began to cry. She looked as if she had already been weeping for hours. Her blue eyes were bloodshot."Phoebe's gone over to—Mrs. Whitney's to—try on her dress," she sobbed."I want to get my black silk dress fixed a little," said I."She'll be homeߞpretty soon," said Maria.I laid my dress on the sofa and sat down. Nobody ever consults Maria about a dress. She sews well, but Phoebe does all the planning.Maria Woods continued to sob like a child, holding her little soaked handkerchief over her face. Her shoulders heaved. As for me, I felt like a stone; I could not weep."Oh," she gasped out finally, "I knew—I knew! I told Phoebe—I knew just how it would be, I-—knew!"I roused myself at that."What do you mean?" said I."When Phoebe came home Tuesday night and said she heard your father and Rufus Bennett having words, I knew how it would be," she choked out. "I knew he had a dreadful temper.""Did Phoebe Dole know Tuesday night that father and Rufus Bennett had words?" said I."Yes," said Maria Woods."How did she know?""She was going through your yard, the short cut to Mrs. Ormsby's, to carry her brown alpaca dress home. She came right home and told me; and she overheard them.""Have you spoken of it to anybody but me?" said I.Maria said she didn't know ; she might have done so. Then she remembered hearing Phoebe herself speak of it to Harriet Sargent when she came in to try on her dress. It was easy to see how people knew about it.I did not say any more, but I thought it was strange that Phoebe Dole had asked me if father had had words with anybody when she knew it all the time.Phoebe came in before long. I tried on my dress, and she made her plan about the alterations, and the trimming. I made no suggestions. I did not care how it was done, but if I had cared it would have made no difference. Phoebe always does things her own way. All the women in the village are in a manner under Phoebe Dole's thumb. The garments are visible proofs of her force of will.While she was taking up my black silk on the shoulder seams, Phoebe Dole said--"Let me see—you had a green silk made at Digby three summers ago, didn't you?""Yes," I said."Well," said she, "why don't you have it dyed black? those thin silks dye quite nice. It would make you a good dress."I scarcely replied, and then she offered to dye it for me herself. She had a recipe which she used with great success. I thought it was very kind of her, but did not say whether I would accept her offer or not. I could not fix my mind upon anything but the awful trouble I was in."I'll come over and get it to-morrow morning," said Phoebe.I thanked her. I thought of the stains, and then my mind seemed to wander again to the one subject. All the time Maria Woods sat weeping. Finally Phoebe turned to her with impatience."If you can't keep calmer, you'd better go upstairs, Maria," said she. "You'll make Sarah sick. Look at her! she doesn't give way—and think of the reason she's got.""I've got reason, too," Maria broke out; then, with a piteous shriek, "Oh, I've got reason.""Maria Woods, go out of the room!" said Phoebe. Her sharpness made me jump, half dazed as I was.Maria got up without a word, and went out of the room, bending almost double with convulsive sobs."She's been dreadfully worked up over your father's death," said Phoebe calmly, going on with the fitting. "She's terribly nervous. Sometimes I have to be real sharp with her, for her own good."I nodded. Maria Woods has always been considered a sweet, weakly, dependent woman, and Phoebe Dole is undoubtedly very fond of her. She has seemed to shield her, and take care of her nearly all her life. The two have lived together since they were young girls.Phoebe is tall, and very pale and thin; but she never had a day's illness. She is plain, yet there is a kind of severe goodness and faithfulness about her colourless face, with the smooth bands of white hair over her ears.I went home as soon as my dress was fitted. That evening Henry Ellis came over to see me. I do not need to go into details concerning that visit. It seemed enough to say that he tendered the fullest sympathy and protection, and I accepted them. I cried a little, for the first time, and he soothed and comforted me.Henry had driven over from Digby and tied his horse in the yard. At ten o'clock he bade me good night on the doorstep, and was just turning his buggy around, when Mrs. Adams came running to the door."Is this yours?" said she, and she held out a knot of yellow ribbon."Why, that's the ribbon you have around your whip, Henry," said I.He looked at it."So it is," he said. "I must have dropped It." He put it into his pocket and drove away."He didn't drop that ribbon to-night!" said Mrs. Adams. "I found it Wednesday morning out in the yard. I thought I remembered seeing him have a yellow ribbon on his whip."CHAPTER III.

SUSPICION IS NOT PROOF.WHEN Mrs. Adams told me she had picked up Henry's whip-ribbon Wednesday morning, I said nothing, but thought that Henry must have driven over Tuesday evening after all, and even come up into the yard, although the house was shut up, and I in bed, to get a little nearer to me. I felt conscience-stricken, because I could not help a thrill of


happiness, when my father lay dead in the house.My father was buried as privately and as quietly as we could bring it about. But it was a terrible ordeal. Meantime word came from Vermont that Rufus Bennett had been arrested on his farm. He was perfectly willing to come back with the officers, and indeed, had not the slightest trouble in proving that he was at his home in Vermont when the murder took place. He proved by several witnesses that he was out of the State long before my father and I sat on the steps together that evening, and that he proceeded directly to his home as fast as the train and stage-coach could carry him.The screw-driver with which the deed was supposed to have been committed was found, by the neighbour from whom it had been borrowed, in his wife's bureau drawer. It had been returned, and she had used it to put a picture-hook in her chamber. Bennett was discharged and returned to Vermont.Then Mrs. Adams told of the finding of the yellow ribbon from Henry Ellis's whip,


and he was arrested, since he was held to have a motive for putting my father out of the world. Father's opposition to our marriage was well known, and Henry was suspected also of having had an eye to his money. It was found, indeed, that my father had more money than I had known myself.Henry owned to having driven into the yard that night, and to having missed the ribbon from his whip on his return ; but one of the hostlers in the livery stables in Digby, where he kept his horse and buggy, came forward and testified to finding the yellow ribbon in the carriage-room that Tuesday night before Henry returned from his drive. There were two yellow ribbons in evidence, therefore, and the one produced by the hostler seemed to fit Henry's whip-stock the more exactly.Moreover, nearly the exact minute of the murder was claimed to be proved by the post-mortem examination; and by the testimony of the stable man as to the hour of Henry's return and the speed of his horse,


he was further cleared of suspicion; for, if the opinion of the medical experts was correct, Henry must have returned to the livery stable too soon to have committed the murder.He was discharged, at any rate, although suspicion still clung to him. Many people believe now in his guilt—those who do not, believe in mine ; and some believe we were accomplices.After Henry's discharge, I was arrested. There was no one else left to accuse. There must be a motive for the murder; I was the only person left with a motive. Unlike the others, who were discharged after preliminary examination, I was held to the grand jury and taken to Dedham, where I spent four weeks in jail, awaiting the meeting of the grand jury.Neither at the preliminary examination, nor before the grand jury, was I allowed to make the full and frank statement that I am making here. I was told simply to answer the questions that were put to me, and to volunteer nothing, and I obeyed.I know nothing about law. I wished to


do the best I could—to act in the wisest manner, for Henry's sake and my own. I said nothing about the green silk dress. They searched the house for all manner of things, at the time of my arrest, but the dress was not there—it was in Phoebe Dole's dye-kettle. She had come over after it one day when I was picking beans in the garden, and had taken it out of the closet. She brought it back herself, and told me this, after I had returned from Dedham."I thought I'd get it and surprise you," said she. "It's taken a beautiful black."She gave me a strange look--half as if she would see into my very soul, in spite of me, half as if she were in terror of what she would see there, as she spoke. I do not know just what Phoebe Dole's look meant. There may have been a stain left on that dress after all, and she may have seen it.I suppose if it had not been for that flour-paste which I had learned to make, I should have hung for the murder of my father. As it was, the grand jury found no bill against me because there was absolutely no evidence


to convict me; and I came home a free woman. And if people were condemned for their motives, would there be enough hang-men in the world?They found no weapon with which I could have done the deed. They found no blood-stains on my clothes. The one thing which told against me, aside from my ever-present motive, was the fact that on the morning after the murder the doors and windows were fastened. My volunteering this information had of course weakened its force as against myself.Then, too, some held that I might have been mistaken in my terror and excitement, and there was a theory, advanced by a few, that the murderer had meditated making me also a victim, and had locked the doors that he might not be frustrated in his designs, but had lost heart at the last, and had allowed me to escape, and then fled himself. Some held that he had intended to force me to reveal the whereabouts of father's money, but his courage had failed him.Father had quite a sum in a hiding-place


which only he and I knew. But no search for money had been made, as far as any one could see—-not a bureau drawer had been disturbed, and father's gold watch was ticking peacefully under his pillow; even his wallet in his vest pocket had not been opened. There was a small roll of bank-notes in it, and some change; father never carried much money. I suppose if father's wallet and watch had been taken, I should not have been suspected at all.I was discharged, as I have said, from lack of evidence, and have returned to my home—free, indeed, but with this awful burden of suspicion on my shoulders. That brings me up to the present day. I returned yesterday evening. This evening Henry Ellis has been over to see me ; he will not come again, for I have forbidden him to do so. This is what I said to him--"I know you are innocent, you know I am innocent. To all the world beside we are under suspicion—I more than you, but we are both under suspicion. If we are known to be together that suspicion is increased for


both of us. I do not care for myself, but I do care for you. Separated from me the stigma attached to you will soon fade away, especially if you should marry elsewhere."Then Henry interrupted me."I will never marry elsewhere," said he.I could not help being glad that he said it, but I was firm."If you should see some good woman whom you could love, it will be better for you to marry elsewhere," said I."I never will!" he said again. He put his arms around me, but I had strength to push him away."You never need, if I succeed in what I undertake before you meet the other," said I. I began to think he had not cared for that pretty girl who boarded in the same house after all."What is that? " he said. "What are you going to undertake?""To find my father's murderer," said I.Henry gave me a strange look ; then, before I could stop him, he took me fast in his arms and kissed my forehead."As God is my witness, Sarah, I believe in your innocence," he said; and from that minute I have felt sustained and fully confident of my power to do what I had undertaken.My father's murderer I will find. Tomorrow I begin my search. I shall first make an exhaustive examination of the house, such as no officer in the case has yet made, in the hope of finding a clue. Every room I propose to divide into square yards, by line and measure, and every one of these square yards I will study as if it were a problem in algebra.I have a theory that it is impossible for any human being to enter any house, and commit in it a deed of this kind, and not leave behind traces which are the known quantities in an algebraic equation to those who can use them.There is a chance that I shall not be quite unaided. Henry has promised not to come again until I bid him, but he is to send a detective here from Boston—one whom he knows. In fact, the man is a cousin of his, or else there would be small hope of our


securing him, even if I were to offer him a large price.The man has been remarkably successful in several cases, but his health is not good; the work is a severe strain upon his nerves, and he is not driven to it from any lack of money. The physicians have forbidden him to undertake any new case, for a year at least, but Henry is confident that we may rely upon him for this.I will now lay aside this and go to bed. Tomorrow is Wednesday; my father will have been dead seven weeks. Tomorrow morning I will commence the work, in which, if it be in human power, aided by a higher wisdom, I shall succeed.CHAPTER IV.

THE BOX OF CLUES.(The pages which follow are from Miss Fairbanks's journal begun after the conclusion of the notes already given to the reader.)Wednesday night.--I have resolved to record carefully each day the progress I make in



my examination of the house. I began today at the bottom—that is, with the room least likely to contain any clue, the parlour. I took a chalk-line and a yard-stick, and divided the floor into square yards, and every one of these squares I examined on my hands and knees. I found in this way literally nothing on the carpet but dust, lint, two common white pins, and three inches of blue sewing-silk.At last I got the dustpan and brush, and yard by yard swept the floor. I took the sweepings in a white pasteboard box out into the yard in the strong sunlight, and examined them. There was nothing but dust and lint and five inches of brown woollen thread--evidently a ravelling of some dress material. The blue silk and the brown thread are the only possible clues which I found to-day, and they are hardly possible. Rufus's wife can probably account for them.Nobody has come to the house all day. I went down to the store this afternoon to get some necessary provisions, and people stopped talking when I came in. The clerk took my money as if' it were poison.Thursday night. —To-day I have searched the sitting-room, out of which my father's bedroom opens. I found two bloody foot-prints on the carpet which no one had noticed before-—perhaps because the carpet itself is red and white. I used a microscope which I had in my school work. The footprints, which are close to the bedroom door, pointing out into the sitting-room, are both from the right foot ; one is brighter than the other, but both are faint. The foot was evidently either bare or clad only in a stocking—the prints are so widely spread. They are wider than my father's shoes. I tried one in the brightest print.I found nothing else new in the sitting-room. The blood-stains on the doors which have been already noted are still there. They had not been washed away, first by order of the sheriff, and next by mine. These stains are of two kinds; one looks as if made by a bloody garment brushing against it ; the other, I should say, was made in the first place by the grasp of a bloody hand, and then brushed over with a cloth. There are none of these marks upon the door leading


to the bedroom—-they are on the doors leading into the front entry and the china closet. The china closet is really a pantry, although I use it only for my best dishes and preserves.Friday night.—To-day I searched the closet. One of the shelves, which is about as high as my shoulders, was blood-stained. It looked to me as if the murderer might have caught hold of it to steady himself. Did he turn faint after his dreadful deed? Some tumblers of jelly were ranged on that shelf and they had not been disturbed. There was only that bloody clutch on the edge.I found on this closet floor, under the shelves, as if it had been rolled there by a careless foot, a button, evidently from a man's clothing. It is an ordinary black enamelled metal trousers-button; it had evidently been worn off and clumsily sewn on again, for a quantity of stout white thread is still clinging to it. This button must have belonged either to a single man or to one with an idle wife.If one black button had been sewn on with white thread, another is likely to be. I may be wrong, but I regard this button as a clue.The pantry was thoroughly swept—cleaned, indeed, by Rufus's wife, the day before she left. Neither my father nor Rufus could have dropped it there, and they never had occasion to go to that closet. The murderer dropped the button.I have a white pasteboard box which I have marked " clues." In it I have put the button.This afternoon Phoebe Dole came in. She is very kind. She had re-cut the dyed silk, and she fitted it to me. Her great shears clicking in my ears made me nervous. I did not feel like stopping to think about clothes. I hope I did not appear ungrateful, for she is the only soul beside Henry who has treated me as she did before this happened.Phoebe asked me what I found to busy myself about, and I replied, "I am searching for my father's murderer." She asked me if I thought I should find a clue, and I replied, " I think so." I had found the button then, but I did not speak of it. She said Maria was not very well.I saw her eyeing the stains on the doors,


and I said I had not washed them off, for I thought they might yet serve a purpose in detecting the murderer. She looked closely at those on the entry-door—the brightest ones—and said she did not see how they could help, for there were no plain finger-marks there, and she should think they would make me nervous."I'm beyond being nervous," I replied.Saturday.—To-day I have found something which I cannot understand. I have been at work in the room where my father came to his dreadful end. Of course some of the most startling evidences have been removed. The bed is clean, and the carpet washed, but the worst horror of it all clings to that room. The spirit of murder seemed to haunt it. It seemed to me at first that I could not enter that room, but in it I made a strange discovery.My father, while he carried little money about his person, was in the habit of keeping considerable sums in the house; there is no bank within ten miles. However he was wary; he had a hiding-place which he had


revealed to no one but myself. He had a small stand in his room near the end of his bed. Under this stand, or rather under the top of it, he had tacked a large leather wallet. In this he kept all his spare money. I remember how his eyes twinkled when he showed it to me."The average mind thinks things have either got to be in or on," said my father. "They don't consider there's ways of getting around gravitation and calculation."In searching my father's room I called to mind that saying of his, and his peculiar system of concealment, and then I made my discovery. I have argued that in a search of this kind I ought not only to search for hidden traces of the criminal, but for every-thing which had been for any reason concealed. Something which my father himself had hidden, something from his past history, may furnish a motive for some one else.The money in the wallet under the table, some five hundred dollars, had been removed and deposited in the bank. Nothing more was to be found there. I examined the bottom of the bureau, and the undersides of


the chair seats. There are two chairs in the room, besides the cushioned rocker—green painted wooden chairs, with flag seats. I found nothing under the seats.Then I turned each of the green chairs completely over, and examined the bottoms of the legs. My heart leaped when I found a bit of leather tacked over one. I got the tack-hammer and drew the tacks. The chair-leg had been hollowed out, and for an inch the hole was packed tight with cotton. I began picking out the cotton, and soon I felt something hard. It proved to be an old-fashioned gold band, quite wide and heavy, like a wedding-ring.I took it over to the window and found this inscription on the inside: "Let love abide for ever." There were two dates—-one in August, forty years ago, and the other in August of the present year.I think the ring had never been worn ; while the first part of the inscription is perfectly clear, it looks old, and the last is evidently freshly cut.This could not have been my mother's ring.


She had only her wedding-ring, and that was buried with her. I think my father must have treasured up this ring for years ; but why? What does it mean? This can hardly be a clue; this can hardly lead to the discovery of a motive, but I will put it in the box with the rest.Sunday night.—To-day, of course, I did not pursue my search. I did not go to church. I could not face old friends that could not face me. Sometimes I think that everybody in my native village believes in my guilt. What must I have been in my general appearance and demeanour all my life? I have studied myself in the glass, and tried to discover the possibilities of evil that they must see in my face.This afternoon about three o'clock, the hour when people here have just finished their Sunday dinner, there was a knock on the north door. I answered it, and a strange young man stood there with a large book under his arm. He was thin and cleanly shaved, with a clerical air."I have a work here to which I would


like to call your attention," he began; and I stared at him in astonishment, for why should a book agent be peddling his wares upon the Sabbath?His mouth twitched a little."It's a Biblical Cyclopædia," said he."I don't think I care to take it," said I."You are Miss Sarah Fairbanks, I believe?""That is my name," I replied stiffly. "Mr. Henry Ellis, of Digby, sent me here," he said next. "My name is Dix—Francis Dix."Then I knew it was Henry's first cousin from Boston--the detective who had come to help me. I felt the tears coming to my eyes. "You are very kind to come," I managed to say."I am selfish, not kind," he returned, "but you had better let me come in, or any chance of success in my book agency is lost, if the neighbours see me trying to sell it on a Sunday. And, Miss Fairbanks, this is a bonâ fide agency. I shall canvass the town.He came in. I showed him all that I have written, and he read it carefully. When he had finished he sat still for a long time, with


his face screwed up in a peculiar meditative fashion."We'll ferret this out in three days at the most," said he finally, with a sudden clearing of his face and a flash of his eyes at me."I had planned for three years, perhaps," said I."I tell you, we'll do it in three days," he repeated. "Where can I get board while I canvass for this remarkable and interesting book under my arm? I can't stay here, of course, and there is no hotel. Do you think the two dressmakers next door, Phoebe Dole and the other one, would take me in?"I said they had never taken boarders."Well, I'll go over and inquire," said Mr. Dix; and he had gone, with his book under his arm, almost before I knew it.Never have I seen any one act with the strange noiseless soft speed that this man does. Can he prove me innocent in three days? He must have succeeded in getting board at Phoebe Dole's, for I saw him go past to meeting with her this evening. I feel sure he will be over very early to-morrow morning.CHAPTER V.

THE EVIDENCE POINTS TO ONE.Monday night—The detective came as I expected. I was up as soon as it was light, and he came across the dewy fields, with his cyclopædia under his arm. He had stolen out from Phoebe Dole's back door.He had me bring my father's pistol ; then he bade me come with him out into the back yard."Now, fire it," he said, thrusting the pistol into my hands. As I have said before, the charge was still in the barrel."I shall arouse the neighbourhood," I said."Fire it," he ordered.I tried; I pulled the trigger as hard as I could."I can't do it," I said."And you are a reasonably strong woman, too, aren't you?"I said I had been considered so. Oh, how much I heard about the strength of my poor


woman's arms, and their ability to strike that murderous weapon home!Mr. Dix took the pistol himself, and drew a little at the trigger."I could do it," he said, "but I won't. It would arouse the neighbourhood.""This is more evidence against me," I said despairingly. "The murderer had tried to fire the pistol and failed.""It is more evidence against the murderer," said Mr. Dix.We went into the house, where he examined my box of clues long and carefully. Looking at the ring, he asked whether there was a jeweller in this village, and I said there was not. I told him that my father oftener went on business to Acton, ten miles away, than elsewhere.He examined very carefully the button which I had found in the closet, and then asked to see my father's wardrobe. That was soon done. Beside the suit in which father was laid away there was one other complete one in the closet in his room. Besides that, there were in this closet two


overcoats, an old black frock coat, a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers, and two black vests. Mr. Dix examined all the buttons; not one was missing.There was still another old suit in the closet off the kitchen. This was examined, and no button found wanting."What did your father do for work the day before he died?" he then asked.I reflected and said that he had unpacked some stores which had come down from Vermont, and done some work out in the garden."What did he wear?""I think he wore the pepper-and-salt trousers and the black vest. He wore no coat, while at work."Mr. Dix went quietly back to father's room and his closet, I following. He took out the grey trousers and the black vest, and examined them closely."What did he wear to protect these?" he asked."Why, he wore overalls!" I said at once. As I spoke I remembered seeing father go


around the path to the yard, with those blue overalls drawn up high under his arms."Where are they?""Weren't they in the kitchen closet?""No."We looked again, however, in the kitchen closet; we searched the shed thoroughly. The cat came in through her little door, as we stood there, and brushed around our feet. Mr. Dix stooped and stroked her. Then he went quickly to the door, beside which her little entrance was arranged, unhooked it, and stepped out. I was following him, but he motioned me back."None of my boarding mistress's windows command us," he said, "but she might come to the back door."I watched him. He passed slowly around the little winding footpath, which skirted the rear of our house and extended faintly through the grassy fields to the rear of Phoebe Dole's. He stopped, searched a clump of sweetbrier, went on to an old well, and stopped there. The well had been dry many a year, and was choked up with stones and rubbish. Some


boards are laid over it, and a big stone or two, to keep them in place.Mr. Dix, glancing across at Phoebe Dole's back door, went down on his knees, rolled the stones away, then removed the boards and peered down the well. He stretched far over the brink, and reached down. He made many efforts; then he got up and came to me, and asked me to get for him an umbrella with a crooked handle, or something that he could hook into clothing.I brought my own umbrella, the silver handle of which formed an exact hook. He went back to the well, knelt again, thrust in the umbrella and drew up, easily enough, what he had been fishing for. Then he came bringing it to me."Don't faint," he said, and took hold of my arm. I gasped when I saw what he had—my father's blue overalls, all stained and splotched with blood!I looked at them, then at him."Don't faint," he said again. "We're on the right track. This is where the button came from—see, see!" He pointed to one


of the straps of the overalls, and the button was gone. Some white thread clung to it. Another black metal button was sewed on roughly with the same white thread that I found on the button in my box of clues."What does it mean?" I gasped out. My brain reeled."You shall know soon," he said. He looked at his watch. Then he laid down the ghastly bundle he carried. "It has puzzled you to know how the murderer went in and out and yet kept the doors locked, has it not?" he said."Yes.""Well, I am going out now. Hook that door after me."He went out, still carrying my umbrella. I hooked the door. Presently I saw the lid of the cat's door lifted, and his hand and arm thrust through. He curved his arm up towards the hook, but it came short by half a foot. Then he withdrew his arm, and thrust in my silver-handled umbrella. He reached the door-hook easily enough with that.Then he hooked it again. That was not so easy. He had to work a long time. Finally he accomplished it, unhooked the door again, and came in."That was how!" I said."No, it was not," he returned. "No human being, fresh from such a deed, could have used such patience as that to fasten the door after him. Please hang your arm down by your side."I obeyed. He looked at my arm, then at his own."Have you a tape measure?" he asked.I brought one out of my work-basket. He measured his arm, then mine, and then the distance from the cat-door to the hook."I have two tasks for you to-day and to-morrow," he said. "I shall come here very little. Find all your father's old letters, and read them. Find a man or woman in this town whose arm is six inches longer than yours. Now I must go home, or my boarding-mistress will get curious."He went through the house to the front door, looked all ways to be sure no eyes were upon


him, made three strides down the yard, and was pacing soberly up the street, with his cyclopedia under his arm.I made myself a cup of coffee, then I went about obeying his instructions. I read old letters all the forenoon; I found packages in trunks in the garret; there were quantities in father's desk. I have selected several to submit to Mr. Dix. One of them treats of an old episode in father's youth, which must have years since ceased to interest him. It was concealed after his favourite fashion—tacked under the bottom of his desk. It was written forty years ago, by Maria Woods, two years before my father's marriage—-and it was a refusal of an offer of his hand. It was written in the stilted fashion of that day ; it might have been copied from a " Complete Letter-writer."My father must have loved Maria Woods as dearly as I love Henry, to keep that letter so carefully all these years. I thought he cared for my mother. He seemed as fond of her as other men of their wives, although I did use to wonder if Henry and I would ever get


to be quite so much accustomed to each other.Maria Woods must have been as beautiful as an angel when she was a girl. Mother was not pretty ; she was stout, too, and awkward, and I suppose people would have called her rather slow and dull. But she was a good woman, and tried to do her duty.Tuesday night.—This evening was my first opportunity to obey the second of Mr. Dix's orders. It seemed to me the best way to compare the average length of arms was to go to the prayer-meeting. I could not go about the town with my tape measure, and demand of people that they should hold out their arms. Nobody knows how I dreaded to go to the meeting, but I went, and I looked not at my neighbours' cold altered faces, but at their arms.I discovered what Mr. Dix wished me to, but the discovery can avail nothing, and it is one he could have made himself. Phoebe Dole's arm is fully seven inches longer than mine. I never noticed it before, but she has an almost abnormally long arm. But why


should Phoebe Dole have unhooked that door?She made a prayer-—-a beautiful prayer. It comforted even me a little. She spoke of the tenderness of God in all the troubles of life, and how it never failed us.When we were all going out I heard several persons speak of Mr. Dix and his Biblical Cyclopædia. They decided that he was a theological student, book-canvassing to defray the expenses of his education.Maria Woods was not at the meeting. Several asked Phoebe how she was, and she replied, " Not very well."It is very late. I thought Mr. Dix might be over to-night, but he has not been here.Wednesday.—I can scarcely believe what I am about to write. Our investigations seem to point all to one person, and that person--It is incredible! I will not believe it.Mr. Dix came as before, at dawn. He reported, and I reported. I showed Maria Woods's letter. He said he had driven to Acton, and found that the jeweller there had


engraved the last date in the ring about six weeks ago."I don't want to seem rough, but your father was going to get married again," said Mr. Dix."I never knew him to go near any woman since mother died," I protested."Nevertheless, he had made arrangements to be married," persisted Mr. Dix."Who was the woman?"He pointed at the letter in my hand."Maria Woods!"He nodded.I stood looking at him—dazed. Such a possibility had never entered my head.He produced an envelope from his pocket, and took out a little card with blue and brown threads neatly wound upon it."Let me see those threads you found," he said.I got the box and we compared them. He had a number of pieces of blue sewing-silk and brown woollen ravellings, and they matched mine exactly."Where did you find them?" I asked."In my boarding-mistress's piece-bag." I stared at him."What does it mean?" I gasped out, "What do you think?""It is impossible!"CHAPTER VI.

THE REVELATION.Wednesday, continued.—When Mr. Dix thus suggested to me the absurd possibility that Phoebe Dole had committed the murder, he and I were sitting in the kitchen. He was near the table; he laid a sheet of paper upon it, and began to write. The paper is before me."First," said Mr. Dix, and he wrote rapidly as he talked, "whose arm is of such length that it might unlock a certain door of this house from the outside?—Phoebe Dole's."Second, who had in her piece-bag bits of the same threads and ravellings found upon your parlour floor, where she had not by your knowledge entered?—Phoebe Dole."Third, who interested herself most strangely in your blood-stained green silk dress, even to dyeing it?-—-Phoebe Dole."Fourth, who was caught in a lie, while trying to force the guilt of the murder upon an innocent man?-—Phoebe Dole."Mr. Dix looked at me. I had gathered myself together."That proves nothing," I said. "There is no motive in her case.""There is a motive.""What is it?""Maria Woods shall tell you this afternoon."He then wrote--"Fifth, who was seen to throw a bundle down the old well, in the rear of Martin Fairbanks's house, at one o'clock in the morning?—Phoebe Dole.""Was she—seen?" I gasped.Mr. Dix nodded. Then he wrote."Sixth, who had a strong motive, which had been in existence many years ago?—Phoebe Dole."Mr. Dix laid down his pen, and looked at me again."Well, what have you to say?" he asked. "It is impossible!""Why?""She is a woman.""A man could have fired that pistol, as she tried to do.""It would have taken a man's strength to kill with the kind of weapon that was used," I said."No, it would not. No great strength is required for such a blow.""But she is a woman!""Crime has no sex.""But she is a good woman—a church member. I heard her pray yesterday afternoon. It is not in character.""It is not for you, nor for me, nor for any mortal intelligence, to know what is or is not in character," said Mr. Dix.He arose and went away. I could only stare at him in a half-dazed manner.Maria Woods came this afternoon, taking advantage of Phoebe's absence on a dress-making errand. Maria has aged ten years in the last few weeks. Her hair is white,


her cheeks are fallen in, her pretty colour is gone."May I have the ring he gave me forty years ago?" she faltered.

I gave it to her; she kissed it and sobbed like a child."Phoebe took it away from me before," she said; "but she shan't this time."Maria related with piteous sobs the story of her long subordination to Phoebe Dole. This sweet child-like woman had always been completely under the sway of the other's stronger nature. The subordination went back beyond my father's original proposal to her; she had, before he made love to her as a girl, promised Phoebe she would not marry ; and it was Phoebe who, by representing to her that she was bound by this solemn promise, had led her to write a letter to my father declining his offer, and sending back the ring."And after all, we were going to get married, if he had not died," she said. "He was going to give me this ring again, and he had had the other date put in. I should have been so happy!"She stopped and stared at me with horror-stricken inquiry."What was Phoebe Dole doing in your back-yard at one o'clock that night?" she cried."What do you mean?" I returned."I saw Phoebe come out of your back shed door at one o'clock that very night. She had a bundle in her arms. She went along the path about as far as the old well, then she stooped down, and seemed to be working at something. When she got up she didn't have the bundle. I was watching at our back door. I thought I heard her go out a little while before, and went down-stairs, and found that door unlocked. I went in quick, and up to my chamber, and into my bed, when she started home across the fields. Pretty soon I heard her come in, then I heard the pump going. She slept downstairs; she went on to her bedroom. What was she doing in your backyard that night?""You must ask her," said I. I felt my blood running cold."I've been afraid to," moaned Maria Woods."She's been dreadful strange lately. I wish that book agent was going to stay at our house."Maria Woods went home in about an hour. I got a ribbon for her, and she has my poor father's ring concealed in her withered bosom. Again I cannot believe this.Thursday.—It is all over, Phoebe Dole has confessed! I do not know now in exactly what way Mr. Dix brought it about—how he accused her of her crime. After breakfast I saw them coming across the fields; Phoebe came first, advancing with rapid strides like a man, Mr. Dix followed, and my father's poor old sweetheart tottered behind, with her handkerchief at her eyes. Just as I noticed them the front door bell rang; I found several people there, headed by the high sheriff. They crowded into the sitting-room just as Phoebe Dole came rushing in, with Mr. Dix and Maria Woods."I did it!" Phoebe cried out to me. "I am found out, and I have made up my mind to confess. She was going to marry your father--I found it out. I stopped it once


before. This time I knew I couldn't unless I killed him. She's lived with me in that house for over forty years. There are other ties as strong as the marriage one, that are just as sacred. What right had he to take her away from me and break up my home?"I overheard your father and Rufus Bennett having words. I thought folks would think he did it. I reasoned it all out. I had watched your cat go in that little door, I knew the shed door hooked, I knew how long my arm was; I thought I could undo it. I stole over here a little after midnight. I went all around the house to be sure nobody was awake. Out in the front yard I happened to think my shears were tied on my belt with a ribbon, and I untied them. I thought I put the ribbon in my pocket—it was a piece of yellow ribbon—but I suppose I didn't, because they found it afterwards, and thought it came off your young man's whip. I went round to the shed door, unhooked it, and went in. The moon was light enough. I got out your father's overalls from the


kitchen closet; I knew where they were. I went through the sitting-room to the parlour."In there I slipped off my dress and skirts and put on the overalls. I put a handkerchief over my face, leaving only my eyes exposed. I crept out then into the sitting-room ; there I pulled off my shoes and went into the bedroom."Your father was fast asleep; it was such a hot night, the clothes were thrown back and his chest was bare. The first thing I saw was that pistol on the stand beside his bed. I suppose he had had some fear of Rufus Bennett coming back, after all. Suddenly I thought I'd better shoot him. It would be surer and quicker ; and if you were aroused I knew that I could get away, and everybody would suppose that he had shot himself."I took up the pistol and held it close to his head. I had never fired a pistol, but I knew how it was done. I pulled, but it would not go off. Your father stirred a little—I was mad with horror—-I struck at his head with the pistol. He opened his eyes and cried out; then I dropped the pistol,


and took these" -—Phoebe Dole pointed to the great shining shears hanging at her waist— "for I am strong in my wrists. I only struck twice, over his heart."Then I went back into the sitting-room. I thought I heard a noise in the kitchen—-I was full of terror then—-and slipped into the sitting-room closet. I felt as if I were fainting, and clutched the shelf to keep from falling."I felt that I must go upstairs to see if you were asleep, to be sure you had not waked up when your father cried out. I thought if you had I should have to do the same by you. I crept upstairs to your chamber. You seemed sound asleep, but, as I watched, you stirred a little; but instead of striking at you I slipped into your closet. I heard nothing more from you. I felt myself wet with blood. I caught something hanging in your closet, and wiped myself over with it. I knew by the feeling it was your green silk. You kept quiet, and I saw you were asleep, so crept out of the closet, and down the stairs, got my clothes and shoes, and,


out in the shed, took off the overalls and dressed myself. I rolled up the overalls, and took a board away from the old well and threw them in as I went home. I thought if they were found it would be no clue to me. The handkerchief, which was not much stained, I put to soak that night, and washed it out next morning, before Maria was up. I washed my hands and arms carefully that night, and also my shears."I expected Rufus Bennett would be accused of the murder, and, maybe, hung. I was prepared for that, but I did not like to think I had thrown suspicion upon you by staining your dress. I had nothing against you. I made up my mind I'd get hold of that dress—before anybody suspected you—and dye it black. I came in and got it, as you know. I was astonished not to see any more stains on it. I only found two or three little streaks that scarcely anybody would have noticed. I didn't know what to think. I suspected, of course, that you had found the stains and got them off, thinking they might bring suspicion you."I did not see how you could possibly suspect me in any case. I was glad when your young man was cleared. I had nothing against him. That is all I have to say."I think I must have fainted away then. I cannot describe the dreadful calmness with which that woman told this—-that woman with the good face, whom I had last heard praying like a saint in meeting. I believe in demoniacal possession after this.When I came to, the neighbours were around me, putting camphor on my head, and saying soothing things to me, and the old friendly faces had returned. But I wish I could forget!They have taken Phoebe Dole away—I only know that. I cannot bear to talk any more about it when I think there must be a trial, and I must go!Henry has been over this evening. I suppose we shall be happy after all, when I have had a little time to get over this. He says I have nothing more to worry about. Mr. Dix has gone home. I hope Henry and
F


I may be able to repay his kindness some day.A month later. I have just heard that Phoebe Dole has died in prison. This is my last entry. May God help all other innocent women in hard straits as He has helped me!THE MURDER AT JEX FARMThe statement of Inspector Battle of the Criminal Investigation Department.
BY GEORGE IRA BRETT.THE facts of the case were simple enough. A young woman had been found lying at the orchard gate of the farm, thirty-seven and a half yards from the house, dead, with a pistol bullet in her head. Suicide was out of the question, for there was no pistol about, and it was not in evidence that the girl had any cause for despondency. There was no reason for her taking her life. But then, again, she was not known to have an enemy.I like to put down my impressions on paper, pretty fully and quite freely, as I go on. I am doing so now, not as a report for my chief, nor for any sort of publication, but



just as a help to myself. I am not exactly a literary man, as my mates in the force will have it that I am, but I have received a liberal education. I have been taught the use of my own language, and I have always considered that in our profession, which is a very complicated one, the more clearly an officer can put his thoughts into words, and his words on to paper, the better chance he has of doing good work in the detective line.Crime detection is not a secret art; anybody can do it if he has the wits, and the time, and patience to get at all the facts, and if he knows enough of the ways of men and women. It sounds like boasting to say so much, but it isn't; we all fail too often to be vain, and when I fail, I always say, "I couldn't get at all the facts," or, "I didn't know enough about the sort of people concerned."I don't seem like getting to the bottom of this Jex Farm crime yet; the facts are too provokingly few and simple. I have been here two days already, and have learnt little more than I have written down above.Here I paste in a paragraph from a county



paper, which pretty nearly tells the story with all its circumstances so far as we have got at present."MURDER IN SURREY.—Jex Farm, two miles from Bexton, in Surrey, was the scene of a terrible and mysterious crime on the evening of Wednesday last. A young unmarried lady of the name of Judson, a niece of Mrs. Jex, the widowed owner of Jex Farm, was found murdered late on Wednesday night just inside the orchard gate of the farm, and within a stone's throw of the house. There were no signs of a struggle, but Miss Judson's gold watch and chain were missing. The crime must have been committed at late dusk on Wednesday evening, 17th inst. (October). It is singular that no sound of firearms was heard by any inmate of the house; and the crime was not discovered till the family were about to meet at supper, when Miss Judson's absence was noticed.After waiting awhile and calling the name of the young lady in vain, the night being very dark and gusty, young Mr. Jex and the farm labourers started out with lanterns. They almost immediately came upon the dead body of the unfortunate young girl, which was lying on the walk just inside the orchard gate, and it is stated that the first discoverer of the tragedy was Mr. Jex himself. It adds one more element of gloom to the fearful event when we add that it is rumoured in the neighbourhood that Mr. Jex, the only son of the lady who owns the farm, was engaged to be married to the victim of this terrible tragedy.
" No clue has yet been obtained. It is clear that the motive of the crime was robbery, and it is supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the high road runs within


twenty yards of the scene of the tragedy, the perpetrator may have been one of a very rough set of bicyclists who were drinking at the Red Lion at Bexton in the after-noon, and who were seen at nightfall to retrace their journey in the direction of Jex Farm. We understand that Inspector Battle, the well-known London detective, has been despatched from Scotland Yard to the scene of the murder. Inspector Battle is the officer whose name has recently attained considerable prominence in connection with the successful discovery and conviction of the perpetrators of the great jewel robbery at Leonard Court."Rather penny-a-lining and wordy, but, barring the too-flattering allusion to myself, on the whole a fair account of the facts.It was young Mr. Jex himself who supplied the information about the bicyclists. He had been shooting rabbits at an outlying farm of his own, a mile beyond Bexton, and stopping to get a glass of beer at the chief inn, found himself surrounded in the bar by a group of rowdy bicyclists. The Surrey countryman generally dislikes the cycling Londoners, who travel along the roads of his county in extraordinary numbers. Mr. Jex had noticed that these men, instead of continuing their journey towards London, had turned again in the direction of Jex Farm.


If they repassed the Lion, at Bexton, they must have done so at night, for they were not seen there again.Mr. Jex is a fine young man, of good looks, twenty-eight years of age, six foot one in height, a sportsman, and popular in the neighbourhood. He is giving me every assistance in his power, and is resolved, he says, to bring the villains to justice. He is naturally much distressed and overcome at the sudden ending of his hopes and prospects.His mother is a kind and motherly woman, over seventy years of age. I understand from herself, that she fully approved of the approaching marriage of her son. I gather in the neighbourhood that Mr. Jex, like so many of his class, has been very hard hit by the prevailing agricultural depression, and that his proposed marriage with his cousin, Miss Judson, an orphan, with property of her own, came as something of a godsend to himself and his family.My written orders from headquarters had been to install myself at Jex Farm, if I could obtain an invitation, in order the


better to unravel the facts as to the crime, and I was to take my full time in the investigations. I showed my instructions on this head to Mrs. Jex and her son, and was by them at once cordially invited to consider the farm my home for the time being.It was a somewhat delicate situation, and I put it plainly to each of them, to Mr. Jex, to his mother, and to a young lady on a visit to them, Miss Lewsome. I was a detective officer, I told them, on a mission to detect a great crime. Though I was a guest at the farm, I was bound, as a police officer, to a minute and suspicious inquiry into everybody's conduct since and before the murder. They must not take it amiss if I was particular and even impertinent in my questions, and vexatious in my way of putting them.The reasonableness of all this was apparent to them all, and I at once began my investigations at the farm and outside it.The first person I interviewed was young Mr. Jex himself. On the 29th he had returned from shooting at his farm on the


other side of Bexton, and he stopped on his way home for a drink at the Red Lion."At what time?" I asked."It was growing dusk," said Jex. "I should say it was within a few minutes of half-past five; three men were drinking at the bar—bicyclists from London; I was thinking they would be overtaken by night. I did not like the look of these men.""Never mind the bicyclists for the present, Mr. Jex. You stayed some time in the bar?""An hour or more.""Did you meet any one you knew at the Lion? Any neighbours?""Yes; I met James Barton, and--""Don't trouble yourself with their names just now. You met friends who can speak to your being at the inn?""I did.""That will do. I want to get to the dates. At about five-thirty you started for home?""It was exactly on the stroke of six by the clock of the Lion.""You had, no doubt, taken a glass or two of ale?""No; I took a glass of whisky and water.""Or two?""I took two glasses.""You took two glasses of whisky and water, good; and then you set off for the farm? Was your man with you?""What man?""The man who carried your game, or was it a boy?""I had no man or boy with me. I had brought three rabbits in my pocket, and I left them as a present to Mrs. Jones of the Lion.""You had your gun with you?""Of course I had.""Was it loaded?""Yes; but I drew the charges as I neared home.""You noticed nothing unusual as you came in?""Nothing.""Yet you passed within a yard of the orchard gate where the poor girl must have been lying dead?""I must have; but it was pitch dark under


the trees. I saw nothing but the lights in the parlour windows from the time I opened the gate out of the road.""And coming along the road you did not notice or hear anything?""Yes, I saw the lanterns of three cyclists coming towards me when I had got a few hundred yards from the Lion. I never saw men travelling faster by night; they nearly got me down in the road between them.""Did they speak to you?""One cursed me as he passed. I had gone near to spill him, he said. They never slackened speed ; I just felt the swish and wind of their machines as they shaved past me.""You noticed nothing else? I mean on the road home?""Yes, I thought I heard some shots far away—poachers, I thought at the time—in Squire' Watson's woods.""How many shots?""Three.""Close together?""As close as I speak now: one—two—three.""Was this long after you met the cyclists?"He took a moment to think."Come, Mr. Jex, you can't want time to answer such a simple question?""It was some time before I met them." "How far might it have been from the Lion when you heard the three shots?""A matter of half a mile.""Then it was after you met the cyclists?""No, it was before.""It was after, for you told me just now you met them a few hundred yards on the road, and now you say you heard the shots when you were half a mile on your way home. Half a mile is not a few hundred yards; half a mile is eight hundred and eighty yards."Mr. Jex seemed puzzled."You are too sharp on a fellow," he said."I had need to be, Mr. Jex," I answered. "Now, Mr. Jex," I said, "there is another point on which I am afraid I must question you.""I guess what it is," said he; "go ahead. You mean about me and Miss Judson?""That is so—about Miss Judson and yourself. You were engaged to her?""I was.""Had the engagement lasted long?""A month.""And she had been two months your mother's guest at the farm?""Going on for three.""And there was nothing to stand in the way of your wishes?""I don't understand what sort of thing you mean?""Well, any misunderstanding between you—quarrels, you know.""Oh, lovers' quarrels! They don't amount to much, do they? We had the usual number, I suppose."This is a queer, indifferent sort of a lover, I thought."Well, even a lover's quarrel has a cause, I suppose—and mostly jealousy; perhaps there was some neighbour you did not fancy the look of?""God bless you, no! she didn't know the neighbours—hardly.""Or some old London friend the young lady may have had a liking for once?""Couldn't be," said Jex positively. "Because Mary Judson only had one friend. She had been engaged to him, and she threw him over. She fancied me better, you see. She told me all about him. She told me everything, you know.""Ah, women always do!""They do when they care for a fellow," said Jex warmly."Well, perhaps they do; but, you see, here's a mysterious crime, and I want to find a motive for it.""Who could have a motive?""Possibly a disappointed rival—from London.""Why, man," said Jex, "I tell you it couldn't be ; the man I spoke of is in New Zealand—thousands of miles away. I tell you the motive was robbery. Why, wasn't the girl's gold watch taken?""That might be a blind, Mr. Jex," said I, looking him straight in the face; "it's a common trick, that.""Oh, nonsense; we all agreed at the inquest it was robbery, and we fastened it on to those three cyclists I saw at the Lion, and coming back along the road, hot-foot, just in the nick of time to do the trick. Don't you go wasting your time, Mr. Battle, over rivals, and rot of that sort!"I let my gentleman run on, but I thought well presently to throw a little dash of cold water over his cock-sureness."Mr. Jex," I said, "do you remember that at the inquest the county police put in plaster casts of all the footprints found next morning round about where the body had lain?""Well, what if they did?""I've just compared those footprints with the bootprints of the inmates of this house, and every single mark corresponds with the boots worn by three of the labourers at the farm, and—by yourself."This staggered him a bit."Of course," he said, "we made these marks when we carried the body in.""I know that," I said."And one country boot," said Jex, "is just as like another as one pea is like another.""Not quite so like as that. But, Mr. Jex, did you ever know a cyclist to ride his machine in hobnailed boots? So, you see, the murderer could not be one of your bicyclists."Jex kept silence for a minute, and he went rather pale as I watched him."The man who committed this murder, Mr Jex, never wore a cyclist's boot.""I'll tell you what," he said, after a longish pause, "we'd trampled down the ground a good bit all round; we must have trampled out the murderer's footprints.""It's just possible," I said, "but not likely that you shouldn't have left a square inch of shoeprint anywhere. However, that is of no matter to me at present. I've another bit of evidence that I'll work out first.""A clue?" asked Jex eagerly. "What is it?""Well, Mr. Jex, you'll excuse me for not mentioning it just at present. You'll know soon enough."I gave him a moment to think over the matter, then I went on--"Now, sir, I should like to ask you one or two more questions, if you're quite agreeable.""Fire away," said Jex, regaining his assurance."I'm told you used to meet Miss Judson at the orchard gate on your return from shooting, or what not?""That's so.""At nightfall?""Yes, as it grew from dusk to dark.""Might she be expecting you there on the 17th, just as night fell?""Likely she might.""But about that time you were drinking in the bar parlour of the Lion?""Well, if you call two goes of whisky and water after a long day's walking, drinking, I was.""The landlady is an old friend of your mother's, I'm told."Jex laughed.Whoever told you that, told you wrong.My mother does not particularly cotton to Mrs. Jones.""What! the two old ladies don't hit it off, don't they?""Who told you that Mrs. Jones was an old lady?" said Jex; "she's a young one, and a very pretty one into the bargain.""Then that accounts," said I, "for the present of rabbits, eh?"Jex winked. Our talk then ended.I have mentioned a fourth inmate at Jex Farm at the time of the murder, in the person of Miss Maud Lewsome, a young lady friend of Miss Judson's, and a distant cousin of hers, but no blood relation of the Jex family. Miss Lewsome had come as a friend of Miss Judson, and had resided at the farm some five weeks. She is a tall, dark, handsome girl, gentle and reserved in manner, but, as I should judge, extremely intelligent. I hear that her profession in life is the literary one, but whether in the way of book-writing or journalism I am not told. She had also been for a short time on the stage. I have as yet had hardly any conversation with


Miss Lewsome, so overcome is she with the nervous shock of the tragedy of which her dearest friend has been the victim.I need not reproduce here at any length the evidence of the country surgeon who made the post mortem, as given at the inquest. It was to the effect that death had not resulted, as at first reported in all the papers, from a single bullet, but from three bullet wounds in the side of the head, one just behind the ear, and two just above it. The shots must have been fired from the distance of a few yards, for there was no burning or discolouration of the skin. That they must have been fired in rapid succession was evident from the fact of the three wounds being within a circle whose radius was not more than three inches in length. The charges of powder, in the doctor's opinion, must have been light, for after passing through the walls of the skull, there was little penetration. The bullets, all three, had been extracted—very small round leaden bullets of the size of large peas, not of the conical shape used in revolvers of the more


expensive kind. heath must have been instantaneous, for the bullets were all three found buried in the brain, one still spherical, the others flattened by contact with bone.Now it is obvious that this increases the difficulty connected with the fact that no one at the farm, neither Mrs. Jex nor his Lewsome, nor any of the labourers or female servants who were indoors and at supper at the time, had heard the sound of firearms. It is true that on the evening of the 17th half a gale of wind was blowing from the north-east of the house ; all doors and windows were closed, the night being cold and rainy, but the sitting-room faces the south-east, and though a tall yew hedge interposed, it was difficult to see how three pistol shots, fired less than forty yards away, should not be audible by the inmates of the room. Was Mrs. Jex hard of hearing? I asked. She was not, she declared. Bad she heard positively nothing ? Nothing but the roaring of the wiled in the chimney, and every now and then the rattling of the windows-s. Was she absorbed in reading or talk ? No, she was


knitting by the fireside. Miss Lewsome had been writing at the table all the evening. From time to time she had talked with Miss Lewsome, who had remained with her in the room from before sundown till supper time.I then examined Miss Lewsome by herself, as I had already examined Mrs. Jex. She corroborated what that lady had said.The wind was loud that night," said Miss Lewsome. "It rattled the windows and made a great noise in the chimney. She was writing all the evening," she said."Forgive my curiosity," I said; "was it something that took up your attention and would have prevented your hearing a noise outside?"She hesitated."I was writing up my diary," she answered. "Ah! you keep a diary?""Yes.""May I see it?""Oh no!" she said. "That would be quite impossible. I could not show it to any one. You must really not ask to see it.""I am very sorry," I said, "but I am afraid you must let me read it.""Why?""Because I am a police officer, and am here to inquire into the death by violence of Miss Mary Judson, and because your diary may throw some light upon the circumstances of the crime.""How can it help you? It is all—personal; it is all about myself.""I am not in a position to say how the diary can help me till I have seen it; but see it I must."She still hesitated; after a pause she asked, "Do you really insist?""I am afraid I must."She walked to her desk, opened it, and took out a red leather-covered book with a lock, and put it, with its key, into my hands.That night I read the diary. The entries were, as Miss Lewsome had told me, scanty, that is, at first, referring to such trivial events as her arrival at the farm, for the diary began with the beginning of her visit.As it went on, however, the entries became fuller, and the occurrences of the six or seven days previous to the murder were narrated with considerable fulness ; and before I had ended my perusal of the book, certain vague suspicions that I had already formed in my mind began to gather in strength, and to acquire full corroboration.EXTRACTS FROM MISS LEWSOME'S DIARY."October 3.--The more I see of what is going on between Charles and Mary the more I blame myself for my fatal weakness. Had I only known of their engagement! ... why, oh why, did they keep it a secret from me? He never should have learned my passion for him—-never should have . . . oh, fool, fool, that I have been! Poor Charles, I hardly blame him. In honour he is bound to dear Mary, and yet I see day by day that he is getting colder and colder to her and more and more devoted to me. In honour he can't break off his engagement. Poor fellow, too, he needs his cousin's money. Without it I know ruin stares him in the face. Were it


not for that, as he says, he would break with Mary to-morrow. I believe him."October 5.—What am I to do? The situation becomes more and more difficult every day. I see that I must leave Jex Farm, but it will break my heart, and I fear it will break Charles's too."October 6.—Mary suspects nothing, though Charles grows daily colder to her."October 11.-Charles and I have had an explanation. I have told him that I can bear it no longer. He said he could not break off the engagement; if he could he would. He spoke almost brutally."'I must have Mary's money,' he said. Without it my mother, I, my sisters and brothers and the farm must all go to the devil. I hate the woman!' he cried out."'Don't, don't say that, Charles; it is so dreadfully cruel and wicked. What has boor Mary clone to you?'"'She has come between me and the only woman I ever loved. Is not that enough?'"'But you have told me that your cousin's money must come to you some (lay or other?'"'Yes, but only on her death.'"'Don't, Charles; it is too dreadful.'"'Yes, isn't it? Just awful!'"'Well, but--'"He laughed."'Oh, women never understand business, but I see what you are driving at, my dear, a post obit, or a sale of the reversion of Mary's estate, eh?'"I nodded, just wishing to see what his meaning was, but of course never dreaming of anything so mercenary and hateful."He went on."'Then you think, I suppose, that with the cash in hand I could break off with Mary, and make amends for the wrong I have done you? Is that your little game?'"At that moment I almost hated Charles. Tears of mortification came into my eyes."'Oh, Charles, don't think so meanly of me!'"'Meanly! Why, hang it, it was in my own head too, why should it not be in yours? You are the cleverest girl I know, for all you are so quiet; of course you thought of


it! So did I; only that cock won't fight, my girl. Oh no; I consulted a lawyer, and he upset all my little plans. "You could not raise a penny," says he, "for Miss Judson might marry, and if she does and (lies, her estate goes to her children, if she has any. Anyhow, you can't touch the reversion till she dies single, or dies childless."'"'Then, Charles, there is nothing for Inc to do but to go out into the wide world, poor, abandoned, and miserable, with all the weight of my sin and shame on me!'"He looked at me a long time with a curious look in his eyes, frowning. Then he kissed me suddenly on the mouth."'Maud,' he said, 'you love me—-really? really? really?'"'I love you,' I said, 'with all my heart and soul and strength.'"'And what,' he asked, 'what would you do to gain my—my company for ever?'"I made him no answer, for I did not understand him. I do not understand him now. Then he said suddenly--"'If you look at me like that with those


great brown eyes of yours and kiss me with those lips I would . . . there is nothing, by Jove, nothing I would not--'"Then, without another reasonable word, and with an oath, he broke from me and left the room."The last entry in Miss Lewsome's diary was on the evening of the murder, and it was no doubt written at the very moment when the tragedy was being enacted within a few yards of the farmhouse windows. This gave her written words a strange impressiveness to me. The handwriting of this last entry, I noticed, was as firm as it had been throughout—such a hand as I should have expected from what I knew and had heard of this young lady's character and temperament; a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned girl she is, quiet and reticent in manner, impulsive and headstrong, perhaps, where her passions led her--the diary shows this only too clearly--but gentle, repressed in all her ways and speech; a woman, in short, with such powers of fascination as few men can resist.It is just such a girl as this for whom men commit untold follies, and just such a girl as would hols an obstinate, dull-witted, over-bearing and vain young fellow, as I judge Charles Jex to be, in the hollow of her hand. These lines that follow are the last in the diary:-

"I have had a long talk with Mary to-day. Charles has at last spoken to her about his feelings towards her, and his feelings towards me. He has told her plainly that he no longer cares for her, but he will marry her if she insists upon holding him to his promise. The communication has come upon her as a shock, she said. She was overwhelmed. She could give him no answer. She could not believe that I had encouraged him. Did I love him? she asked me. Did he really love me? Was it all not a horrible dream? I told her the truth, or as much of as I dared, without giving away the secret of my shame. I told her that he had made me care for him long before I knew or even guessed there was anything between him and




her. I would go at once. To-morrow I could take the train to town and never trouble him, or her, or any one connected with Jex Farm again. Poor Mary cried—she behaved beautifully. She said--"'Maud, you love him; he loves you. You can make him happy. I see now that I cannot. His happiness is more to me than my own. I will go away and you shall be his wife. I will never marry.'"We did not speak for several minutes. I could not at first believe in such a reversal of misery. Then all the difficulties of the situation flashed upon me. My poverty; the financial ruin he had to face; the wealth that would save him."'No,' I said; 'Mary, it cannot be; you are generous, and I love you, but it cannot be. I cannot allow you to make this sacrifice.'"We talked long together, and we both of us cried a great deal. I do not think the world holds so sweet and unselfish a woman as Mary Judson. Whatever our lots are in life, hers and mine, we shall always be as sisters


one to the other. To-morrow I leave Jex Farm."The immediate effect upon my mind of the reading of this evidence was to supply me with what had been wanting: a motive for the crime. Everything had pointed, in my estimation, to treachery in the household; everything seemed to be against the possibility of the crime being committed by an outsider.Assuming thieves and murderers not connected with the household, what possible reasons could have brought them to run such a risk as to shoot down an innocent unoffending girl within forty yards of a dwelling-house, where probably several men were within call and certainly within earshot of the sound of firearms? Then again, if a stranger had done this thing for the sake of robbery, how could the be sure that the girl would have money or a watch about her? A third and stronger reason against any stranger criminal, was the fact that no stranger had left the imprint of his steps within five


yards of the gate on the further side of which the girl had fallen. Her head, as she lay, all but touched the lower bar of the orchard gate. She had been shot down at her accustomed trysting-place with her lover, in the dusk; and, with the shade of the trees, and in the deep darkness of late evening, what stranger could have guessed she was there? What stranger could know so well where and how she would stand as to be able to fire three successive shots, through the shadows of falling night, with such deadly aim as to take effect within an inch of each other on the poor girl's temple?I abandoned the idea of a murder for the sake of robbery; it was untenable. I scouted the theory suggested by Charles Jex, and persevered in by him with curious insistence, that the murderers were the bicyclists whom he had seen in the bar at the Lion. The murderer was an inmate of Jex Farm—of that there could be no manner of doubt; the evidence of the footprints was proof enough of that.Who, then, was the murderer?Before I answer that question I put in another document, a very important piece of evidence. It is the report—the very concise but careful report of one of the most conscientious, pains-taking and intelligent provincial officers I have ever had the pleasure of doing business with—Sergeant Edwardes of the Surrey Constabulary."Sergeant Edwardes' Report on, the footprints
near the spot where the body of Miss Judson
was found, at 9.35 P.M., on October 17, 189-."I have counted 43 distinct human footsteps and 54 partial imprints."Of the 43, 24 are made by the left foot and only 19 by the right."Of the 54 faint or partial impressions, I found 17 of the left foot and only 12 of the right, the rest are not distinctive enough to pronounce upon."Of the total number of the fainter foot-prints, 18 are deeply marked in the soft clay, the others are less strongly impressed. Of the 18 that are deeply marked, 11 are male by the left foot, 7 by the right."This accords with what I was told subsequently—that Mr. Jex's three labourers, and Mr. Jex himself, on finding Miss Judson's dead body, at once took it up in their arms and bore it to the house."Bearers of a heavy weight, such as a dead body, walking together, invariably bear heavily upon the left foot, both those who are supporting it on the left, and those who are supporting it on the right side."Distinguishing the bootprints by their length, breadth, and the pattern of the nail-marks upon them, I find that they are the footprints of five separate persons, all of them men. I also found, clearly impressed, the footprints of the victim herself."There had been heavy rain in the morning of the 17th, and the soil is a sticky clay. I examined it at daybreak on the morning of the 18th, and, as it had not rained during the night, the impressions were as fresh as if they had just been made. By my orders no one had been allowed to come near the spot where the body was found during the night. Just outside the gate of the orchard the grass



has been long trodden away by passers-by, leaving the earth bare; and the patch of bare earth forms an area rather broader than the gate. On this area the body had fallen, and round about the spot where it had lain I found all the footprints on which I am reporting."I have compared the boots worn by the labourers with the impressions near the gate. They correspond in every particular."In the case of the footprints of the three labourers a majority of the deeper impressions are made by the left boot."I therefore conclude that all three men came upon the spot only to carry away the body of the girl, and had no hand in her death."I argue the same from the footprints made by Mr. Jex. He also had borne more heavily with the left than with the right foot. He also, therefore, must have come on the spot only to bear off the body, and could have taken no part the girl's murder."'There are almost an exactly equal number


of impressions, plain or faint, of the foot-prints of these four persons."There remain the footprints of a fifth person. They are the impressions of a man's foot, but the hobnailed boots that made them, though full-sized, are of a rather lighter make than the others, and the nail marks are smaller, the boots are newer, for the sides of the impressions have a cleaner cut, and, what is important, the impressions of the left foot are in no case deeper than those of the right."This person, therefore, clearly did not assist in carrying the body."The person who made these footprints is, in my opinion, the man who, on the night of the 17th of October last, murdered Miss Mary Judson."The conclusion, so clearly and so logically arrived at by Inspector Edwardes, at once narrows the field of investigation. My own inquiries bring out a still more startling discovery. The footprints of the murderer—the almost self-convicted murderer—correspond



in length, and breadth, and in the number of nail marks, twelve in the print of the left foot, ten (there being two gaps, which also correspond) in that of the right, with a pair of boots in the possession of Mr. Charles Jex.This very damning fact must not be driven home in proof of Mr. Tex's guilt too hastily. It is absolutely necessary, in inquiries of this very grave character, to proceed with caution and deliberation. Another man might have worn the boots with intent to deception on the night of the murder. A murderer, with the devilish cunning of one who seeks to compass the death of a fellow-being without risk of detection, frequently rises wily precautions such as this.Let us take the women inmates of the house first. There was Miss Lewsome—but it could not have been this lady, for there is the direct evidence of old Mrs. Jex, that Miss Lewsome had not left her side in the sitting-room since sundown. There is the almost stronger, indirect, undesigned, and internal evidence of Miss Lewsome's diary, with the entry of this very date calmly and


fully set out at the very time the murder must have been effected.
Then, again, there are the two maids, well-behaved, innocent rustic girls. It could be neither of them, for their presence in the kitchen the whole evening was vouched for by the evidence of the other servants. The same applied to the three farm labourers. Not one of the servants, male or female, had left the kitchen or scullery that night. From sundown to supper-time is the hour of rest and recreation at a farm, and the day, which has been spent in work and silence, generally ends, for rustic folk, in talk and laughter. The whole five of them had been enjoying themselves noisily round the kitchen fire. Their loud talk and the blustering wind, that roared about the farm chimneys on this tempestuous evening, had, doubtless, prevented any one of them from hearing the three revolver shots on the night of the murder.There remains Mr. Jex. Let us impartially examine the facts that throw suspicion upon him. Here is a man who clearly no longer


loves, probably never did love, the girl whom he is about to marry for her money; who certainly does care for another woman; who has entangled himself in an intrigue with this second woman, which he may reasonably expect to come to light at any moment and endanger his prospects of a rich marriage; who, by the impartial evidence of that woman's diary, has indulged in vague threats against the murdered girl. Lastly, he is the only person who will benefit by her death, and who will, in fact, enjoy a welcome and immediate relief, by this event, from impending bankruptcy.On the other hand, Mr. Jex, at the moment when the crime was probably committed, was at Bexton, or on the road homeward; but we have no knowledge of the hour at which Mary Judson met with her death. It might be, for all we know, a good half hour later than Mr. Jex's return to the farm. We know nothing of Mr. Jex's movements from the time of his coming home till his entry at nine o'clock into the sitting-room where his mother and Miss Lewsome were awaiting


him. No servant opened the door for him ; he let himself in. No one saw or heard him enter. What was he doing all the time that elapsed between his coming home and the discovery of the murder? By his own statement, there were nearly two whole hours to be accounted for. He says he was taking off his wet things and putting on dry ones, lounging about in his bedroom, resting. It may be so, but the time so occupied seems unnecessarily long.Whatever my prepossessions were towards the young farmer, under whose roof I had made my temporary home, in whose company I had lived on familiar terms for days, I could not resist the suspicions that were gathering more strongly, day by day, round the man. To speak frankly, I had got to like Charles Jex; his rough, downright, hearty ways had, at first, quite disarmed my suspicions. I admit that likes and dislikes are unprofessional things in a service where a man should keep his personal predilections to himself; but I will confess that it takes a cooler brain and a calmer temper than mine


to keep clear of them. This is one of the miserable drawbacks of a detective's life; duty compels him too often to turn upon the man he has broken bread with; to slip the handcuff over the hand that has passed him drinks and helped him to his meat. I struggled to the very last against the damning facts that were accumulating against Charles Jex, and fastening upon him the guilt of this base and cruel murder.The man, too, was, I saw now, a fool as well as (assuming his guilt) a brutal and cruel murderer. It was the very extremity of his stupidity, indeed, that drew me to hope him innocent. It was almost unthinkable that such a shrewd fellow as Jex had the character of being in the country-side—keen at a bargain, quick at a joke, a hearty, jovial companion at board and bar, knowing and clever in all the signs of coming change in weather and market, should have proved so clumsy a fool in this deadly affair; leaving traces enough and supplying motives enough to hang a dozen men. Of all men, one would suppose that a man of the fields and a sportsman,


used to the marks and tracking of game, would be careful how he left the print of his footprints on the soft clay. Why, that evidence alone, with time fitting and motive thrown in, was enough to bring him to the gallows! As if this was not enough, further more damning evidence was forthcoming.Let me trace out, step by step, the history of the murder, on the assumption that Jex is the actual murderer. As to the motive, I have said enough. No one but Jex had a pecuniary motive for the murder of the girl, whom he certainly did not love. The evidence of the footprints is very strong, but I have said enough of them. To touch upon the immediate cause of death: there were three small bullets found in the brain. I have already stated that these bullets were not of the conical kind usually found in revolver cartridges. They were round, and of the size that are used in the dangerous toys known as drawing-room pistols. They were, in short, slugs, bullets of the size of a very large pea. During one of Jex's absences on the farm, I had carefully overhauled the saddle-room,


where the young farmer kept his guns and ammunition. I found all his guns, cartridge-fillers, wads, shots of different sizes, arranged with the neatness and order that a good sports-man uses. The guns, carefully cleaned and oiled, were slung on the wall. Two were of the ordinary kind—12-bore and double-barrelled. A third was a heavy, single-barrelled deck gun, no doubt meant for use in the neighbouring marsh. Half-a-dozen of the old-fashioned shot-pouches hung along the wall, full or half full of shot.These receptacles, as every one knows, were formerly employed for muzzle-loaders, when men put in first the powder, then the wad-ding, then the shot, and a wad over that. One of these pouches caught my eye. It was of larger size than the others. I took it from the wall, held it mouth downward over my left hand, and pressed the spring which should have released a charge of shot. No shot fell into my hand, but three slugs. I snapped the spring again, and three slugs fell out. I repeated the experiment again and again, every time with the same result. The brass



measure, meant to hold an ordinary charge of shot that would weigh about one ounce, held just three of the slugs, neither more nor less, every time. It was a revelation, for the slugs were identical in size and weight with those found in the brain of the unfortunate young lady. The obvious conclusion was that the murderer had loaded his gun from this leather pouch!There was another corollary to be drawn. The theory of three shots from a revolver was no longer tenable; it seemed clear that the fatal shot had been fired at one discharge, and from a gun. It was also certain, from other evidence, that the person who fired the shot had been one well acquainted with fire-arms and their use. He would have been anxious that the discharge of his gun should make as little noise as possible. A man knowing in gun-firing knows that to do that he must use a minimum of powder, with a soft paper wadding in place of the usual tightly fitting circular wad. So fired, the report of a glue is little louder than the clap of a man's two hands, when he holds them half curved.It was in evidence that the bullets had made but little penetration, only just enough to kill, and that therefore the charge was light. It is true that no such paper wadding, as I believed had been employed to further muffle the sound of the discharge, had been found near the scene of the murder.It was well, though not absolutely indispensable, in order to bring home the perpetration of the crime to Jex, and in order to show that it was the deed of an expert—in order to show that his story of his hearing the three shots was a lie—in order to find a reason for the gun report, fired so close to the house, having been unheard by its inmates,—it was well, I say, to show that the noise had actually been deadened by the use of paper wadding.I walked straight to the orchard gate. I placed myself where the murderer must have stood, within two or three yards of it; he must have fired point-blank at the girl, who stood, probably, with her hands resting on the top rail. The paper wadding, or any wadding, would have flown out at an angle more or less acute to the line of fire, right or left of


it, some four or five yards from the muzzle of the gun, and would have fallen, and must now be lying hidden in the grass on one side of the orchard path.I searched the long wisps of grass, and in two or three minutes had the satisfaction of finding, half-hidden among the roots, first one, then a second piece of crumpled paper, charred and blackened with gunpowder. Inspector Edwardes had overlooked this important piece of evidence. By the time I had spread the papers out upon a board, they were little but damp film, but enough was left of their original appearance to show that they were pieces of the county paper, the Surrey Times, the paper taken in regularly by Mr. Jex.The man who fired that shot, therefore, was a proved expert. He was one who had strong reason for not wishing the shot to be heard ; and, with half a load of powder, a light of one shot, and loose wadding, he had taken the very best means to effect this. purpose. Who in the household was thus expert in firearms? Who alone could have known of


the existence of the slugs in the saddle-room? Clearly, no one but Charles Jex. He had loaded the gun, too, with paper obtainable in his own house.I had now more than evidence enough to justify Jex's arrest for the murder of Mary Judson, but I was willing to accumulate still more. I therefore contented myself with obtaining a warrant for his arrest from the magistrates at Bilford, prepared to execute it the moment circumstances should make it expedient. Jex had for some time shown himself uneasy. He shunned me; it was clear he suspected me of having got on the trail of the crime. I began to get anxious lest he should think the game was up, and try to escape from justice. I wired for two of my men, whom I had left at Bilford, and instructed them to watch the farm by night, and lay hands on the farmer if he should attempt to break away in the darkness. By day I could keep my own eye upon him. I did not let him get far out of my sight, but, careful as I was, he showed signs of knowing he was watched.On the morning of the 22nd of October—it was my third day on this job—he came down early, dressed rather more smartly than usual, and, before breakfast, he went round to the stables. I affected not to have observed this suspicious movement, and, in the course of the morning, I accepted Miss Lewsome's invitation to accompany her on a walk to Bexton. We both went to make ready. Jex left the room at the same moment. He went towards the stables ; I was watching him from my bedroom window. I ran downstairs, prepared for what was coining, and, making my way quickly into the road, stood behind the tall quickset hedge.Presently I heard the hurried steps of the groom in the avenue; in a moment more he had opened the gate wide, and as he did so, the dog-cart appeared, with Jex driving his grey mare very fast. He called to his servant to look sharp, and hardly stopped for the man to climb up behind. I moved quickly in front of the mare."Hulloa, Mr. Jex, you're in a hurry this morning!""Yes, confound you, I am ; get out of my way, or we shall do you a mischief," and he whipped the mare and tried to drive past me."Softly, sir—softly, if you please."I took hold of the reins, and kept a firm hold."Well, what is it?""Going to catch a train, Mr. Jex?" He hesitated."You're in fair time for the 12.10 up, yon know. Going to town, mayhap.""N-no—I'm not. Going to meet a friend at Lingham Junction, that's all.""Will yon take me with yon, Mr. Jex?""No room, Inspector. My friend and his things, and my fellow, will take all there is to spare.""Oh, leave Sam behind. I can hold your mare at the station, you know."He muttered an oath, stupidly, but there was no way for him out of the scrape."Jump up, then," he said sulkily. "Sam," he called to his man, "you can go hack to your horses."I sat by his side in the cart, and we drove


at a fair pace to the station, without half a dozen words passing between us.No doubt he was thinking the matter out; so was I. I knew just what was passing in his thick head. He was devising how he might slip into the train while I stood outside holding the horse. He forgot the telegraph. Dealing with these rustic criminals and their simple ways is bad practice for us London officers, who have to set our wits, in town, against some of the sharpest rogues in creation.We got in good time to the station. The up-train signal went down as we drove to the gate."Now, Mr. Jex, you'll be wanting to meet your friend; shall I walk the mare about?""Ay, do so, Mr. Battle," said Jex, "that's a good fellow. You might take her two hundred yards or so up the road. Keep her behind that outhouse, where she can't see the engine passing, will you? She's a bit shy."I laughed in my sleeve at the fellow's shallowness. They don't take in Inspector
I


Battle from Scotland Yard quite so easily as that!"All right, give us the ribbons. Hulloa, you've got a bag?""Only a parcel for the up-train.""Oh, I see; only a parcel for the up-train. Look sharp then, and get the label put on it."I looked up and down the line; the train was not in sight; there was no need for hurry. I turned the mare round and drove her slowly towards the buildings Jex had pointed to. I saw him watch us for a bit from the station gateway before he went in. As he did so, I beckoned to a boy standing by."Here's a sixpenny job, my lad. Just you walk the mare up to that outhouse, and keep her out of sight of the train till I come back. D'ye hear?"Then he slipped into the station, and, keeping out of sight, saw, as I expected I should see, Jex taking his ticket.I waited till the train was in, and just as the young farmer, bag in hand, had stepped on to the footboard of a second-class carriage, I laid my hand upon his shoulder."Charles Jex," I said, clear out, for him and the others around to make no mistake, "I arrest you for the murder, on the 17th instant, of Miss Mary Judson."There was a crowd of ten to fifteen—porters, guards, farmers, and others—round us in a minute. Jex just swore once. Most criminals that I have taken this way lose their pluck and turn pale, but Jex behaved differently. It was clear that my move had not taken him by surprise."I expected as much," he said. He looked round at the people on the platform—his friends to a man, for the young farmer is a known and popular character in the neighbour-hood. "Half a minute more," said he under his breath, "and I'd have done it."I slipped one of my pair of bracelets over his wrist and clicked the catch, keeping fast hold of the other iron."Anyhow, the game's up now, my man," I said."Ay, you're right, Battle—the game's up now, sure enough."The crowd of his friends became rather


obstreperous. I called on the station-master and the porters to stand by me, telling him and his people about who I was.There was a bit of a hustle, and rough talk and threats, and I tried to get the other handcuff on, but my prisoner and I were being pushed about in spite of what the station people did to help us, and I should have not managed it but for Jex himself. He held his free hand out alongside of the manacled one."Oh, damn it, Battle, if that's what you want, get done with it, and let's he off out of this!"I put the second handcuff on and locked it. The sight angered his friends, the farmers standing about, and one of them shouted--"Now then, boys, one more rush to goal and we'll get it.""Hold on, gentlemen, if you please," I cried. I warn you in the Queen's name! This is my lawful prisoner; I'm an inspector of police, and I hold a warrant for the arrest of the body of Charles Jex, for murder."They held back at this for a moment, and I hurried my prisoner through the station entrance, and the porters and station-master closed round and shut the gate in the faces of the crowd.I never yet knew a man take it so coolly as Jex. When we got to the dog-cart, he held up his two hands with the handcuffs on them."I guess you'll have to drive yourself, Mr. Inspector."We got in, and I took the reins and drove off fast.When we had travelled some half a mile from the station, and he had not opened his lips, I said--"So you were going to town, were you, Mr. Jex?""Mr. Battle," he said quietly, "haven't you forgot to caution your prisoner before you ask him any questions? Isn't that the rule?"He had me there, sure enough. It was a clear cop for him."I warn you," I said, coming in with it


rather late, I must admit, "that any statement you make may be used against you on trial.""That's just what I had in my mind, Inspector," said Jex, and he never uttered another word till we neared the farm.Just as we sighted the farm buildings, I made out on the road in the distance a woman's figure. It was Miss Lewsome. She stood in the middle of the road, and I should have driven over her if I had not pulled up."What is this, Mr. Battle? Why is it you who are driving? Tell me—tell me, quick.""You'll know soon enough, miss. Stand aside, if you please.""Oh, what is it? Charles, speak; for God's sake, speak!Jex had kept his hands under the apron; he did not say a word, but presently held out his two wrists manacled together for the girl to see.She gave a loud scream."O God! you have arrested him, Mr. Battle! No, no, you can't--you--c--"As she was speaking a faintness came over her; she turned from red to very pale, muttering incoherent words which we could not catch, and staggered back against a road gate ; but for the bar of the gate, to which she clung, she would have fallen."Help her," said Jex. "Get down and help the girl. You know I can't.""It's all right, she'll get over it. We'll let her be, and send the women to her presently," and I drove the cart the forty or fifty yards that took us into the stable-yard.I had wired from the station for my two men from Bilford, and it was my intention to lodge my prisoner, after dark that evening, in the keeping of the county police, but events were to happen before nightfall that put a quite different face upon the matter.As soon as I had given my prisoner into my men's charge, with orders that one or the other was to be with him till we should give him over to the police at Bilford, I called to two of the women of the farm, and went with them to the help of Miss Lewsome.We found her lying by the roadside in a dead faint. A farmer's wife—a passerby—was kneeling by her side, and trying to recall her to her senses."Poor thing! It's only a bit of a faint. She'll come to if you wait a little."In two or three minutes Miss Lewsome opened her eyes, and presently stood up, and, with our help, she walked to the house. She said nothing, in her seemingly bewildered condition, of what had happened, and presently she was induced to lie down in her bedroom, and for the time I saw no more of her.In little more than an hour, however, I had a message from her through one of the farm girls. She desired to see me at once, and alone.I found her sitting up in an armchair, pale and excited in looks, but at first she did not speak. I drew a chair near hers and sat down. She did not notice the few phrases of condolence I uttered. Suddenly she spoke, and I judged of what she must have felt by the strained tones of her voice."He is innocent, Mr. Battle."I said nothing. Poor girl! My heart bled for her."Innocent, I tell you! Innocent, and you must release him at once!""You mustn't excite yourself about this matter, Miss Lewsome. It is not a thing for a young lady to meddle with.""Yes, but I must meddle with it! I must, I must, I must!"She raised her voice to a scream."Yes, yes, my poor girl, I know how shamefully you have been treated.""I shamefully treated? No, no! He has treated me so well. No one could be so good as he has been.""Your diary, Miss Lewsome?""Lies, all lies—-all wicked, cowardly lies, to save myself and hurt him. Yes, to hurt the only man I ever loved. Oh, I am a devil—a malignant, horrible, hateful devil! No woman, since the world began, ever schemed so hellish a thing as I have schemed."She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.What should I do? I was wasting my time in listening to the raving of a love-sick, hysterical girl. I rose to leave her."You are doing your health no good, dear Miss Lewsome. You must see the doctor, not me; he shall give you a sleeping-draught, and you will be all right in the morning.""By the morning you will have gone away, and you will have taken Charles with you to disgrace, perhaps to death. No, they can't, they can't! the law can't convict him, can it?""It is not for me to say. The evidence is very strong.""Very strong? But there is none! there can be none.""If that man did not murder Mary Judson," said I, getting impatient with her hysterical nonsense, "who did?"She did not answer for a spare of time in which I could have counted twenty slowly, but she kept her eyes on me with a look in them that almost frightened me."I did!""Ah, no! young lady; I see what you're driving at, but it won't do. No, Miss Lewsome, it's a forgivable thing, your trying this on to save your friend; but I tell you at once it won't do.""I murdered Mary Judson!"I shook my head and smiled."I tell you I shot Mary Judson at half-past six o'clock on Wednesday night. I did it because I was a jealous, malignant devil, and hated her, and hated him.""Quite impossible. You never left Mrs. Jex's side all the evening, from before sun-down till supper-time. It's in evidence.""She says so—she believes I did not. She dozes for an hour every evening, and doesn't know that I went from the room. I slipped out the moment she dozed off, and came back before she woke. Oh, I had plenty of time.""But your footprints were not there, and Jex's were.""I put on his boots. I had often done it in fun. I did it that day in earnest.""Did you want to hang him?""I did. I hated him so—then.""Why, in your diary you say you loved him!""I did; oh, I do now! But then, when she was alive, I hated them both—her and him. But you can't understand. Men can't understand women. I was mad.""You are mad now, Miss Lewsome, if you think to save your lover by telling me these falsehoods—for you know they are falsehoods. Mind, I don't blame you for trying it on, but don't expect me or any one to believe you.""I shot her in the dusk at the gate, with his gun. I put three little balls in it that I took from a shot-pouch in the saddle-room.""You couldn't load the double-barrel with powder and halls without a cartridge, and none was used, for none was found."I thought to catch her tripping in her invention here."I did not use the double-barrel. I used the single-barrel." I loaded it as I had "seen Charles load it. I put a bit of paper over the powder, and another over the bullets, and rammed them down as I have seen


Charles do, and I put a cap on as he had shown me how.""Come now, that gun with a full charge would have knocked you down.""I know it would; but I put in only half a charge.""Stop a bit now, Miss Lewsome, and I will catch you out. I found the paper wadding in the grass. What sort of paper was it you put in—brown paper?""No, a bit of newspaper; the county paper. I tore a bit off the Surrey Times."This was beginning to puzzle me."Stop now, Miss Lewsome. You say Mr. Jex is an innocent man. Then why does he attempt to run away? He tried this very day to throw dust in my eyes and go by the express to London.""I guessed he would, and that is why I wished you out of his way this morning.""Had you told Mr. Jex, then, what you tell me now?""No, but he suspects me—oh, I am sure he knows it is I who have done this dreadful thing!""Then if he knows that you are the real murderer and himself innocent, why did he try to escape? You see, your story won't hang together, Miss Lewsome.""Mr. Jet tried to escape, I tell you, to save me.""But why should he put his own neck in the halter to save a guilty woman—if guilty you are?""Because he loves me. He would be suspected, not I."She was certainly in one story about it all."Yes, he loves me, so that he has run this great risk to save me from being found out and hanged.""He told you this?""No, he has told me nothing, nor have I told him anything; but these last days I have guessed by his face that he knows. I have seen it in his eyes. Oh, he loathes and despises me now!"I said nothing for a few moments."Now, Miss Lewsome, I will ask you once more deliberately, and mind you, your


story will be sifted to the utmost, and what you say now may be used against yourself in court. You tell me you shot Miss Mary Judson at half-past six o'clock on the night of the 17th of October?""I did.""You used Mr. Jex's gun, and you charged it yourself?""Yes.""You wore Mr. Jex's boots when you went out in the dark to kill your dearest friend, and you committed this black crime in order to throw suspicion upon Mr. Jex, who was your lover—the man to whom, according to your own diary, you had given yourself?""That part is true. I had. It was because of that I shot her. Oh, I was quite mad! I can't understand it. But there was only hatred and bitterness in my heart, and I saw nothing but blood—there was blood in my eyes.""And what was your object? What did you think would come of it?""Nothing, I think, only I hated her so. I was too miserable because the time was


coming near when he would marry her and I be left alone."But, according to your first story, you were writing your diary, if not at the time of the murder, at least immediately after it was done. Do you wish me to believe that a murderess, hot-handed, can sit down and write long entries in a diary?""It was a lie I told to take you in. I wrote that entry in the diary—all those lies, to throw dust in your eyes—in the forenoon.""You expected nothing, then, from the murder?""I think I expected that perhaps Charles would inherit her money and be able to marry me, when it had all blown over.""But why did you say just now that you hated him, and had committed this cruel crime to spite him? You must have guessed that you would bring him in peril of his life.""Ah, you don't understand women. Women understand women; men never do. I tell you I felt a devil. Why did he want to


make her his wife and leave me in the cold? Oh, I hated him for that; I should never have killed her if I had not so hated him.""Surely you could not have expected him to marry a woman who had committed a murder?""I never thought he would guess. I never thought of all these discoveries. No one would have known if you had not taken him up.""But you brought that about by wearing his boots and firing with his gun and his ammunition.""Ah yes, there is the pity. I did not reason; I wanted to punish him for his jilting of me. He would be in my power. Oh, I did not reason. I only felt—I only felt a vindictive devil. Have no mercy on me; I deserve everything. I hate myself!"I got up."We will talk of this again tomorrow," I said, "when you are calmer.""Yes," she said quietly, "when I am calmer.""You will let me send for the doctor?""Why?""To give you a sleeping draught.""Yes, send for him ; but you won't tell Mrs. Jex. She is very old and feeble.""No, I will tell her nothing to-night—at any rate, nothing of what has happened. She need not even know that her son has been arrested. He will not go from here to-night.""Can you manage that?""Yes, I can manage that."The farm servants, of course, knew that their master was in custody. I told them they were to keep it from the old lady. I sent one of them for the doctor, and when he came I bade him give a strung sleeping dose to Miss Lewsome.I went into Jex's bedroom. He was lying on the bed with the handcuffs still on. My two men were with him. I motioned them to leave me.I took out my key and unfastened the handcuffs and removed them."What's up?" he asked."I've some fresh evidence, that's all.""Am I no longer under arrest, then?""Please to consider yourself in custody for the present. I have said nothing to your mother about all this. She knows nothing. Isn't that better so.""Much better. I'll come down to supper to keep it up.""I was going to ask you to.""How is Miss Lewsome?""Very excited and disturbed. I've sent for the doctor to give her a sleeping-draught. Miss Lewsome has made a communication to me.""Ay, ay."He showed no further curiosity in the matter.The doctor came, gave Miss Lewsome a pretty strong dose of chloral and departed, having learned nothing, by my express orders to the servants, of what had taken place that day at Jex Farm.One of my men remained that night in Mr. Jex's bedroom, and the other had orders to watch the house from the outside.Miss Lewsome's absence was easily accounted for to Mrs. Jex, who was too old and feeble to be easily roused to curiosity by a story of a chill and a headache that had obliged her guest to retire to her bedroom.The hours after breakfast next morning passed slowly. No fresh developments of any kind occurred. .Tex asked no questions, and cared to answer none.I waited for Miss Lewsome's awakening, and deliberated as to my next step. Was her confession to be seriously acted upon? It had shaken me, but not convinced me, curiously supported though it was by a whole chain of circumstantial evidence. Was I bound to arrest this evidently hysterical girl, on the strength of a story which might, after all, be nothing but a tissue of cunning lies to save her lover?I have not often been so puzzled. I have not often found the facts and probabilities for and against so equally poised in the balance.Midday came, and there had been no sign or sound of stirring in Miss Lewsome's


bedroom. I sent in one of the servants and waited outside.Presently the maid screamed and ran out, pale and speechless."What is it?" I asked, rather fearful myself. "What's up now, my girl?""Go to her, sir; go in to her quick! Oh, I don't know—I can't tell, but I'm afraid it's-- Her hands are cold, stone cold, and her face is set. I can't waken her!""By God! The jade's given me the slip after all!"She was dead—had been dead for hours—and on the dressing-table, propped against the pincushion, was a closed letter addressed to myself."I, Maud Lewsome, make this dying confession. I, of my own will, no one knowing, no one advising, no one helping me, shot my friend Mary Judson at the orchard gate of Jex Farm. I had on Mr. Jex's boots over my shoes in order that the crime might be shifted from my shoulders to his. I shot her across the orchard gate, in the dark,


just at nightfall, when she could not see me. She was waiting for him. Perhaps I could not have done it, though I had resolved I would, but that as I came up she said, 'Is it you, dearest?' Then I raised the gun and fired—seeing her against the little light still in the evening sky.The gun made no noise hardly, but I was afraid they might somehow guess indoors it was me, and I waited a long time not daring to go in. Presently the gate from the road was opened. I knew it was Charles Jex coming from Bexton to her, and I was glad then that I had done it. I thought he would see me if I ran into the house, so I opened the orchard gate very softly and crouched down beside the body. He came up to the gate and called 'Mary' twice, but he could see nothing and went away. Then I felt quite hard and callous, but my mind was very clear and active, and I thought I would take her watch so that people might think she had been robbed. I took it and her chain, and coming in again I buried them with my hands two or three inches sleep in the flower-bed


near the porch, and smoothed the mould down over them. Then I was afraid he would see me in the passage, and I took off the thick boots and carried them in my hand. I could hear him in his bedroom overhead, and I took the gun to the saddle-room, and the boots I rubbed dry with a cloth and laid them in a row with the others. Then I felt I must see him, and I went up very lightly and knocked at his door and he came out in his shirt sleeves and said in a whisper, 'How pale you are,. Maud,' and he kissed me, and I kept my hands behind me lest he should see the garden mould on them, but he did not notice that, and he said again, 'How pale you look to-night; have you seen a ghost?' And I ran back to my room and washed my hands, and looked at myself in the glass and thought, That is not the reflection of Maud Lewsome. That is the reflection of a murderess. And in my ears there is always the report of the gun as I fired it at Mary Judson, and in my nostrils the smell of the gunpowder smoke, and since then I have heard and smelt these two


things day and night; but Mary's face, when I killed her, I did not see, and I and glad I did not. The doctor has given me chloral, and presently I shall take another double close from a bottle of it I have, and before morning I shall be dead, for I cannot live after this that I have done. I thought I could forget it, but I cannot, and I must die. I tell the exact truth now, in the hope that God may listen to my confession and my repentance, and forgive me for the awful wickedness that I have committed. I shot her with Charles's large gun; I had watched him loading it often, and I did as he did, and I put three little bullets in it that I took from the shot-pouch that hangs third in the row on the wall."The first thing I did after reading this was to call one of my men, and bid him turn over the soil in the flower border close to the porch. He did, and in my presence he found Mary Judson's watch and chain. Taking it in my hands, I carried it to Jex."We have found this, Mr. Jex.""Where?"I told him. He nodded, but said nothing."Will you please to read this paper, sir?" And I handed him that on which Miss Lewsome had written her confession.He read the first few lines and started up. "Good God! Has she--?"I nodded."She took her own life last night."He sank down on a chair and covered his face with his hands, but his emotion lasted but a moment."Poor girl!" he said sadly. "I expected it.""Then you knew she had done the murder?"He made through the confession he held in his hand, then he gave it back without comment."After this, Mr. Jex, you are of course at liberty. I have only to apologize to you for the inconvenience I have put you to, but the evidence against you was strong, you must admit.""You could not do otherwise, Inspector


Battle, than you have done," and he held out his right hand to me.I made some pretence of not seeing his action. I did not take Charles Jex by the hand.Except for certain formalities that I need not set down, the interest of the case was over.With such evidence before us as Miss Lewsome's confession, it was, of course, impossible to charge Mr. Charles Jex with any part in this murder; but, remembering all the circumstances since, I have sometimes asked myself, was the girl alone guilty, or was she a tool in the hand of a scheming villain, or was she perhaps only a victim and entirely innocent?THE SECRET OF THE TREATY

A DIPLOMATIC MYSTERY.
BY ROY TELLET.CHAPTER I.MORE than one attempt has already been made to explain an incident which, at the time it took place, threw the whole diplomacy of Europe into a state of not unnatural consternation. The one prominent fact was as simple as it was astounding. Whilst a congress was sitting to settle the terms of a treaty between two belligerent powers, and the success of the assembled diplomatists was known to depend largely on their keeping their proceedings absolutely secret until they should have arrived at some definite result, a draft copy of the treaty suddenly


appeared in the columns of a well-known London newspaper. A thunderbolt falling in their midst could not have startled the plenipotentiaries more. In fact, for the moment, this premature revelation threatened to put an end to the congress altogether, as it seemed to point inevitably to a breach of faith on the part of one of the members. Of course, an attempt was made to disavow the draft treaty, and, as a matter of fact, this premature publication rendered it absolutely necessary to modify some of its provisions, more especially those of the famous thirteenth clause. But none the less the draft treaty, as originally published, was known to be correct iii all its main details, and the question arose how it had been possible for any newspaper to obtain a knowledge of these details while the congress was still sitting, and all its deliberations were veiled in the profoundest secrecy.As I have already said, various attempts-—more or less ingenious—-have been made to solve the mystery, but these attempts have all stopped short of the actual solution. Many


interesting details which have been given were false, and some less interesting which were true, but how that raptor quotidianus--the daily press—-came to be able to carry off in its beak this most secret of secrets, has remained a puzzle to everybody (except myself and two other men) up to the present day.It seems to me that the time has at length come when the long-desired revelation may be made without indiscretion. Originally, there were four persons more or less concerned in the mystery, though only three, if so many, were in full possession of the secret. Of these four, two are dead, another has entirely disappeared, and I, the fourth actor in the drama, have made up my mind to relate the circumstances of the extra-ordinary affair. However, even now I propose to proceed cautiously, and not to define too clearly either the individuals concerned, or the countries represented.I should mention at the outset-—for it is to this circumstance that I owe my connection with the mystery-—that I was at



one time myself in the diplomatic service, as unpaid attaché. Whilst acting in this capacity at a foreign court, I had the good fortune to render a great service to one of the ministers of state—a man of European reputation. He was more grateful than diplomatists are generally supposed to be, and honoured me ever afterwards with his affectionate regard. As I write I have on my finger a magnificent emerald, which he left to me when he died. It was owing to my intimacy with him that I came to he mixed up with the affair of the treaty. I will call him Prince Schatzenberg.At the time congress assembled, I chanced to be staying at the capital where they were to hold their sittings. I was not alone; an English friend named Gresham was with me. He was one of those Englishmen who wander about without any very definite aim in life, but with plenty of money in their pocket, and who, suffering at times a little from the ennui of idleness, are generally ready to take up with any new fad to diversify the routine of their existence. In my friend's


case, the latest of these fads was graphology, which he professed to have brought to a great pitch of perfection. This was a science in which, at that time, I hardly believed at all, but circumstances afterwards led me to think that in the hand of an acute and original observer it might be turned to good account.The day before the congress was to commence its sittings, the diplomatists gathered together from every part of Europe. In all, seven powers were represented. Among the plenipotentiaries was Prince Schatzenberg, on whom I made a point of calling without delay.The prince was staying at the Schweizerhof, and directly I sent up my card I was admitted to his presence. I found him lying on a couch, and looking older and frailer than when I had seen him last. But his manner was as charming as ever, and I could entertain no doubt that he was really glad to see me. He excused himself from getting up, but put out his delicate hand and grasped mine with a gentle but affectionate


pressure. I noticed that it was the left hand that he gave me."So glad to see you again, mon cher," he said. "Excuse my left hand, the right is crippled with the gout. I gave orders that no one was to be admitted, but of course that was not meant to apply to you. You are always welcome.""I have been longing to see you, prince," I answered. "It is some time now since we met. But I am afraid you are not so well as I should like to see you.""Well, no, I am not quite so young as I was, and the long journey has knocked me up. Besides, I am tormented with my old enemy, neuralgia in the face. There, take that fauteuil. You won't mind my finishing a letter, I know, and then I can release my amanuensis."I had noticed the amanuensis as I entered the room, and it had puzzled me to define his exact position socially. He was a young man—about thirty, as I judged—neatly and quietly dressed, but he did not seem to be quite what we call in England a gentleman.This surprised me, as the prince's secretaries were generally men of aristocratic birth. I noticed also that when the prince resumed the dictation which my entrance had interrupted, the amanuensis bent his head very close to the paper as if he were short-sighted.It did not take long to finish the letter. When it was done the prince said--"Thank you, Maubeuge ; I need not keep you any longer. I shall not want you again before ten."The young man got up, bowed to the prince and to me, and left the room with a noiseless step."My new factotum," said the prince, when the door had closed behind him, "and a perfect treasure.""I thought I did not remember him," I said."No, I had Francois when you were with me last; but Francois was a Gaul of the Gauls. He was always sighing for his beloved France, and finding every other country triste in comparison. So at last I had to let



him return home. When he went I thought I would get a valet who could do a little writing for me sometimes. Francois was no good at that. Assis sous and à six sous were the same to him so far as spelling went. Of course, one has one's secretaries, but only at stated hours. Besides, there are letters which it is not necessary that secretaries should see. And I am now quite unable to write a line myself, owing to this gout in my hand. So I find Maubeuge very useful. Not so good a valet as Francois, but far superior in other ways; and with no home-sickness. He is a Belgian, not a Frenchman. And he is really educated, so that, altogether, he suits me admirably. But what am I thinking of, to chatter in this way instead of asking you about yourself? No need to inquire after your health—your looks are sufficient. But how have you been getting on? Tell me about yourself."There was not much to tell. The prince knew already that my father was dead, and that I had succeeded to the family estates. Nor did I wish to prolong the conversation,


for I could see that the prince needed rest. So after a few minutes I arose to go."Well," he said, "I will not try to detain you now, for we shall have, I hope, many opportunities of meeting. You must come and see me whenever you can. Au plaisir. And now for a nap."As he spoke he took up a white silk handkerchief that lay beside him on the couch, shook it out, and poured over it some liquid from a bottle on the table. As he did so the smell of chloroform diffused itself through the room."I can get no sleep without it," said the prince, catching my look. "Don't be alarmed. It is not a habit; it is only a temporary resource whilst the neuralgia troubles me."CHAPTER II.WHERE the carcase is, there will the vultures be gathered together; and whenever diplomatists assemble for a special


purpose, there you will assuredly find a crowd of special correspondents also. This was conspicuously the case on the occasion of which I am writing. Every great newspaper in Europe had sent a representative to watch the proceedings of the congress. Of course, the watching had to be done from the outside, and very tedious and disappointing work it was. The plenipotentiaries were even more cautious and reticent than usual; they dropped none of those little crumbs of information on unimportant matters which keep the special correspondent from starvation. They were watched as they went into the sittings, and watched as they came out, but the keenest scrutiny was unavailing; an elusive smile baffled all observers.Prominent among these special correspondents was a man of widespread fame. He represented a famous English journal, but whether he himself was an Englishman no one knew. He was pleased to call himself Le Grand, but it does not follow that this was his real name ; he may have adopted it for the sake of the idea that it embodied.


It was said that he was a native of the Channel Islands; his French, was, however, the purest Parisian. But, then, he spoke with equal purity English, German, and, I dare say, various other languages in which I was less able to judge of his proficiency. Never was there a man more thoroughly cosmopolitan, and never was there a correspondent who exhibited greater enterprise and audacity in securing tit-bits of early information for the paper he represented. He was personally acquainted with every prominent statesman in Europe, and had been admitted to confidential interviews with many monarchs. On one occasion he had travelled téte-à-téte with a king across France, and, on another, he had forced his advice upon the most masterful of continental statesmen. When he chose, he could decorate his breast with an array of orders sufficiently numerous and distinguished to excite the envy of any diplomatist.Physically he was an immense man, but his appearance was not distinguished. His broad fat face was shaven, perhaps to favour the idea that he was an Englishman. The features,


taken as a whole, were commonplace; the eyes small and cunning; the mouth wide; the upper lip stiff and strenuous; the chin determined; the nose long and flexible, as became such a seeker after news. The head was massive, and suggested great intellectual capacity. His manners were charming when he chose, but it belonged to the cosmopolitanism of his nature that they should be capable of great variation. He could at times be positively haughty. As a consequence of his great stature, he had acquired the habit of looking down on those with whom he conversed, and this physical necessity seemed to have engendered a corresponding moral attitude, for he affected to despise everybody, even crowned heads. His vanity was indeed egregious, and this failing went far some-times toward neutralizing the effects of his extraordinary sagacity and enterprise, fir when he had achieved some great success, it was difficult for him to refrain from boasting of it prematurely.On the present occasion he appeared on the scene in his usual consequential way. He


went about saying that the only point of real importance to be dealt with by the congress was how the various claims for compensation and indemnification were to be settled, and he boldly announced his intention to publish these provisions of the treaty as soon as the details should be settled. Of course this was mere brag; but if there was a man in Europe who could translate an idle boast into an actual performance, Le Grand was the man.For seven days the congress continued its sittings, whilst the outside world waited in vain for any indication of the course which its proceedings were taking. On the evening of the eighth day I received a note from Prince Schatzenberg, asking me to go to him as soon as I possibly could.I went at once, and found him, as I had found him on every previous occasion, reclining on a couch, and looking as if he were in great anxiety."I am afraid you are not so well, prince," I said."The neuralgia still troubles me; but it is not that. I have been greatly worried. This


business of the treaty has harassed me beyond measure. It has been on my mind night and day, and would have kept me awake with-out the neuralgia. But yesterday I really thought that we had at last got into smooth water. All was settled to my satisfaction. And now—would you believe it?—I greatly fear that all our labour has been in vain.""In vain!" I exclaimed; "how can that be?""You may well ask. I cannot imagine how it has happened, but it is a most serious business, especially for me. You know Le Grand? Well, he has just been here. I did not like to refuse to see him. One must keep on good terms with men like that. He came to ask me if he could be of any use to me, and reminded me how I had once availed myself of his services. Of course, no one knows better than you, mon cher, the value of a ballon d'essai. It is sometimes very desirable to ascertain the drift of public opinion before one commits one's self to a definite course. But this is not the case now. Absolute secrecy is our only chance of accomplishing


our aim. There are certain provisions, which, if they were divulged prematurely, would no doubt stir up an amount of opposition which would render it impossible to persist in them. But if they are not made known until the treaty is actually signed and sealed, though, no doubt, there will be some grumbling, yet they will be allowed to stand."Well, now, Le Grand, who is always a dangerous man, has managed to excite the most uncomfortable suspicion in my mind. When he rose to take leave of me he said--"I must thank you, prince, for your courtesy in receiving me, and am only sorry that you do not need my services—not even with respect to the provisions of the thirteenth clause.""I pretended not to have heard the last words, and kept my countenance until he had left the room. But, in reality, I was astounded and annoyed beyond measure.""I think I can guess why," I said."Of course you see at once what it means. It is a fact that the clause which treats of the indemnifications, and which has given us


almost all our trouble, is the thirteenth clause. Now, how could Le Grand possibly have discovered this fact?""It is indeed serious," I said, "for it could not have been a mere guess.""Oh no, that is impossible. And his air of triumph and the significant emphasis which he laid upon the words were quite enough to convince me that he had some definite information. But if he knows this he probably knows a great deal more. And should he publish this information, as of course he will, all our efforts will have been in vain. It is really a fatal business. That man must be the devil!""But how could he possibly have got the information?""How, indeed? We have taken every possible precaution. We hold our sittings, as you know, at the Foreign Office, in an immense saloon upstairs. The calls and ceilings are prodigiously thick. We sit at a table in the middle of the room, and never raise our voices; there is no occasions for us to do so. Perhaps you suggest the chimney—something was


once done in that way, or supposed to be done, for I never quite believed the story. But with us it is impossible, for we keep up a roaring fire. Neither is it through the blotting paper that our secret has been betrayed, for we do not use any; we powder our writing in the good old-fashioned style. In fine, it is absolutely impossible for any outsider to get sight or hearing of our proceedings. And what makes the incident all the more painful is, that, in the discussion of this particular clause, we decided, for the sake of greater security, to dispense with the attendance of the secretary."Of course I saw the significance of this. It seemed to point to treachery on the part of one of the diplomatists. I hinted as much to the prince; but he was staunch in the defence of his order."No doubt," he said, "it looks like it. No other explanation seems possible, and yet that explanation is impossible. Diplomatists, as you and I know, are not considered a specially scrupulous class of people. But there is honour among thieves, and diplomacy


itself would become impossible if there were not a certain background of confidence among diplomatists. Here, as in many other causes, a rigid professional etiquette serves as a succedaneum for conscience. When we act individually, no doubt, we are liable to do all sorts of queer things. But when we agree to act collectively, and mutually pledge our honour to keep our proceedings secret, we know we can trust each other."I was aware, from my experience, that there was a great deal of truth in what the prince said; still, my curiosity prompted me to ask him who had acted as secretary when the real secretary was absent."Oh, there need be no secret about that," said the prince, "it is Shrievaljieff. How pleased he will be if Le Grand upsets the treaty. My chief difficulty has been with him."I knew Count Shrievaljieff well, but did not care much for him. He was a tall, fine man, between fifty and sixty, exceptionally ugly, but with wonderfully supple, and. if I may so speak, adjustable manners. And


to match these he had an extraordinary command of the facial muscles. When in perfect repose, the clean-shaven skin looked very like a sheet of tight-drawn parchment, except that the colour was much browner than parchment. But, when he wished, he could wrinkle up the entire surface of his face into a series of concentric curves which seemed to represent the ne plus ultra of human suavity and benevolence. But they came so suddenly and disappeared so completely that it was impossible not to harbour a suspicion that they were wholly superficial, and that this many-wrinkled smile stood in no vital relation to the man's inner nature. In fact, it reminded me very much of the grimace of an indiarubber doll when you squeeze its plastic countenance.It was said that the count had developed this talent for facial contortions to such an extent that he could, when he chose, make one side of his face assume a different expression from that of the other, so as to be ,able to present a sympathetic aspect to two different interlocutors at the same time.


This was, of course, not literally true; but I always fancied that he turned a natural defect to such good account, that there was an element of truth in the statement. For whilst his right eye was in all respects normal, the lid of the left eye drooped permanently over the eyeball. This eye was, moreover, always suffused with, an excess of moisture, which gave it a somewhat lachrymose appearance. This, no doubt, he sometimes turned to good account, when paying a visit of condolence. The explanation probably was that the left eye was an artificial one, as the irritation caused by artificial eyes is apt to over stimulate the lachrymal glands. It any rate it was generally believed in diplomatic circles that the count was blind of the left eye, though he himself never acknowledged the defect.Whilst I was conjuring up in my mind this image of Count Schrievaljieff, the prince had been prodigal of lamentations over the stolen secret."It touches me more than any one," he said, "for it is precisely this thirteenth


clause in which my gracious master is most interested. And I have just succeeded in arranging matters as I knew he wished them to be arranged. It has given me a world of trouble, and now Le Grand is going to upset it all. It is monstrous that the press should have such power.""Is there anything I can do?" I asked; "if so, pray command me.""Well, I thought that, as you know Le Grand, you would not mind trying to sound him so as to find out, if possible, how much he really has discovered. He is such a braggart that he might commit himself.""I will see what I can do," I said; "but I do not expect that I shall get much out of him.""Thank you so very much," said the prince; "you are always doing something for me."CHAPTER III.LE GRAND was staying at an hotel near the chief post-office, so I bent my steps in that direction. I did not wish to call on him if I


could avoid it; it would be far better that any conversation we might have should spring up casually. I was therefore not a little pleased when, as I was drawing near the post-office, I saw my man a little distance in front of me. It was impossible to mistake his huge figure and curious shambling gait.By an instinct he seemed to know that some one was watching him from the rear, for he suddenly looked around and, catching sight of me, turned back to meet me."Ah!" the said, in his grand manner, "going to the post-office, I suppose? It is the real centre of civilization."I thought it would be well to accompany him, so I said something about buying stamps.We entered the host-office together. Le Grand prepared to write a telegram. As he unbuttoned his coat to take out his own special pencil—the gift of some monarch—I noticed the end of a blue official envelope sticking out of an inside breast pocket, and could not help wondering whether it twined the draft of the treaty.When he had finished writing his telegram, he came up to me flourishing it in his hand."It is in one way lucky," he said, "that we correspondents have absolutely no news to send, for the censorship is very strict. No cipher telegrams are allowed to be sent during the sitting of the congress, and the ordinary telegrams are detained, or suppressed, or mutilated, as it suits the authorities. I have no doubt, too, that the Black Cabinet is at its old work of opening letters. However, if you have no news to communicate, it makes no difference. They can hardly object to a telegram like this—can they?"With that he handed me the telegram to read. It was very short, and was addressed to the office of his paper in London."Cannot obtain much information. No good waiting in the hope to-night."I have a trained memory, and when I read this telegram I took care to fix it indelibly in my mind. Then I returned it to Le Grand, and he handed it to the clerk, who accepted it without demur.I had hoped that I might now get a little private conversation with the great man; but I was disappointed, for the moment we got outside, he made his adieux, and, hailing a drosky, was driven back to his hotel. There was nothing for me to do but to return to mine; but, meantime, I took out my note-book and wrote down his telegram word for word. Two or three things had already struck me with it. The first was that he had evidently wished me to see it. This by itself was suspicious, as Le Grand seldom did anything without an object. The second was, why should he telegraph at all, if he had no news to convey? The third was that, transparent as the telegram seemed, there was still something a little suspicious in its length. Why not have simply telegraphed: "No news?"Altogether I was satisfied that there was some deception about this telegram, and I therefore proceeded to treat it as a cryptogram. Now the plan of such everyday cryptograms is not, as a rule, very complicated. Unless, as was the case with me,


there is some ground of suspicion to start with, a very simple cryptogram will effectually conceal the meaning of the writer. But, knowing what I did, I had something to work upon; and, thus helped, I soon deciphered Le Grand's real meaning. At least, I felt morally certain I had done so. I merely took the initials out of the words in their order, and found that they made up this pregnant sentence--"Coming with T.""T, of course, stood for treaty."This was not only a piece of information, but just the piece of information that might have been expected. For, if Le Grand had really secured a copy of the treaty, he would, of course, be most anxious to transmit it at once to London. But how? It was impossible to send it by telegraph. No cipher telegrams were allowed to pass, and any other, however ingeniously constructed, must needs betray itself through the proper names of persons and countries without which the treaty would be mere nonsense. Nor did I think it likely that Le Grand


would commit such momentous secret to the post, knowing, as he did, the unscrupulousness of the Black Cabinet. There remained only one course of action, at once feasible and prudent, and that was for Le Grand to convey it in person to London. As he would travel by the mail, he would arrive just as soon as the letter, and would no doubt enjoy the ovation which he would assuredly receive.I looked at my watch. It was already seven o'clock. The through train started at eight. I told my valet to pack my valise and put in some official paper and envelopes. This done, I drove to the station by myself. As yet there was no sign of Le Grand. I waited about on the platform in the hope that he would make his appearance, but I waited in vain. At last, at five minutes to eight, it suddenly occurred to me to make a thorough inspection of the train. It was well I did so, for there, huddled up in the corner of a first-class compartment, with a travelling cap drawn down over his face, and the collar of his overcoat pulled up to his eves, was Le Grand. And he must have been there


for nearly an hour. He had done his best to disguise himself, but there was no concealing those huge proportions. I jumped into the carriage just as the train began to steam slowly out of the station.No doubt Le Grand saw at once that it would be impossible for him to maintain his incognito, so he made a virtue of necessity, and said"What! are you running away too?""Only for a day or so," I said."That is just my case. I want a little change, and really there is nothing to be gained by dancing attendance on the congress. Never was there such a collection of dumb dogs."If I had still doubted that Le Grand had gained some valuable information, I could have doubted no longer. Nothing else would have justified this turning of his back upon the congress whilst it was still in the middle of its sittings. I determined to stick close to him, in the hope that I might gain some definite information. However, during our long journey he was very reticent, and it


ed it to his pocket, but not before I had noticed two things about it. The first was, that it was fastened; the second, that there was no writing upon it.I had now to devise some plan to get possession of this envelope, and it was not long before I hit upon one.I left Le Grand and went into another cabin. Here I opened my valise, and took out a precisely similar envelope. Then I folded a sheet of foolscap paper, and placing it inside, fastened


the envelope. I had now a dummy package not to be distinguished externally from the one in Le Grand's pocket.All this was simple enough. The difficulty was how to effect the change; but I had my own scheme.The custom-house officials were, as usual, on board, and I went up to the chief of them and told him in confidence that there was a passenger on board whom it might be well for them to search for cigars or tobacco. "Of course," I added, "I do not wish to be mixed up in this business; I just give you the hint for what it is worth. You cannot mistake the passenger in question, he is so immense, and I can hardly believe that all his bulk is genuine."The official was very much obliged to me for the hint, and it was arranged between us that the search should not take place till just as we were reaching Dover, and that I should then place myself close to the suspected passenger in order to avoid the possibility of a mistake.All came off as we had arranged. As the


steamer was on the point of entering the harbour, I went up to Le Grand to fetch my valise, which I had previously placed beside him. Then the revenue officer came up and asked if he had anything to declare."Nothing," said Le Grand impatiently."Please to open your packages."These were duly examined, but nothing contraband was discovered.And now, sir," said the chief official, "I must trouble you to turn out your pockets.""What!" exclaimed Le Grand, swelling with indignation."Duty, sir.""But it is unheard of. Do you know who I am?""That doesn't matter, sir; we have the right to search any passenger."" You will hear more of this," said Le Grand.But he had to submit, and he laid a motley collection of articles on the table. Amongst them was the blue envelope. This was my opportunity. I felt very nervous, but in reality the risk of detection was very slight,


as every one's eyes were riveted on Le Grand. In fine I made the exchange without difficulty. Then I quietly withdrew and went on deck. The gangway had already been placed in position. As I was crossing it, Le Grand, foaming with impotent anger, came up behind me."Did you ever hear of such insolence?" he said. "I shall have the matter brought forward in Parliament."I let him pass me when we got on shore, and then made my way, not to the Lord Warden, but to a much smaller hotel, where I knew I should be unmolested by enemies or friends. Here I opened the packet. True enough, it contained the draft treaty, in French, with the thirteenth clause obtrusively marked with red ink."So the prince was right in his suspicions," I said to myself. "But how on earth did Le Grand manage to get hold of it?"I knew that, though I had secured the draft, which might be useful for the detection of the traitor, whoever he might be, Le Grand was much too sagacious to allow himself to


be dependent on any document. I did not doubt that he had learnt off the principal clauses by heart, and that we should, in spite of his loss, see the main provisions of the treaty in the next day's Dial. So I sent the following telegram to the prince:--"I have recovered the missing parcel, but I am pretty sure that most of its contents have been forwarded to London."CHAPTER IV.I STAYED at Dover only until the next boat left for Calais. Then I retraced my route, and in due course found myself again in the capital where the congress was sitting. My first visit was, of course, to the prince. I found him greatly agitated."How good of you," he said, taking both my hands in his, "to put yourself to all this trouble on my account. And so you have really discovered the document? I will not ask how you managed it. In whatever way


it was done, it was a righteous act, for Le Grand could have obtained it only by fraud of some kind. But the modus operandi is utterly beyond me. As I said before, Le Grand must be the devil!"I drew out the envelope, and handed him the paper on which the draft treaty was written."Perhaps," I said, "this will help you to detect the traitor."The prince took the paper, and ran his practised eye over the several paragraphs."It is as I feared," he said at last, with something very like a groan. "Some of it is, no doubt, mere clever guess-work; but much is evidently amplified from significant hints given by some one who is familiar with our proceedings. And the thirteenth clause—the most important of all—is almost word for word as we finally agreed that it should stand. This makes it certain that we have been betrayed. And if it once gets into the papers, as you think it will, there will be such an outcry that we shall have to modify it. It is a terrible blow, especially for me,


as it will be impossible for me now to secure anything like favourable terms for my sovereign. No misfortune so great has ever befallen me in the whole course of my official career. And all through that unscrupulous Le Grand!"Sympathizing with the prince, I did my best to soothe and comfort him, but his chagrin was too profound for my efforts to have much success.Then I tried to turn his attention to the document as a possible means of identifying the traitor."Do you know the handwriting?" I asked."Not in the least; it seems to be a disguised hand.""So I thought. And there is nothing about the document to suggest to you any-one in particular as the writer?""Nothing."We had a little further conversation, and then I left him, taking the document with me. I had an idea that possibly Gresham might help me. At any rate it was a good


opportunity of putting his boasted science to the test.When I brought the subject before him, he smiled a little sarcastically."So the scoffer has come to pray," he said.Then he carefully scrutinized the writing, at first with the naked eye, and afterwards with a pocket lens. At last he said--"Now I think I have mastered it. Pray ask me any question you like. I will not undertake to answer them all; but, if I do not know, I will say so frankly.""Very well, then. First, Is this hand-writing natural or disguised?""Undoubtedly disguised.""Secondly, Is it a man's hand or a woman's?""A man's.""Thirdly, Is the writer educated, or uneducated?""Highly educated.""Can you fix approximately the age of the writer?""Only in the roughest way. He is certainly not a child—not even a youth—for the hand is perfectly formed. And he cannot be very


old, for the writing is quite firm. But he might be any age between, say twenty-five and fifty—or even sixty."I could think of only one more question. As yet Gresham's science had done but little to help us."Is there any peculiarity about the writing which enables you to give any further information respecting the writer?""Ah," he said, "that is a crucial question; the rest was mere child's play. I answer it by saying that there is something very peculiar about the writing which does enable me to give a piece of information about the writer. Only—only you will not believe me when I tell you what it is.""Tell me, nevertheless," I said."The writer is blind of one eye.""How can you possibly know that?""Oh, it is easy enough, if you only take the trouble to observe. I know, too, that it is the left eye of which he is blind, and that the sight of the right eye is not good.""It is very remarkable, if true.""It is perfectly true. You can judge for


yourself. Did you ever see 'i's' dotted as these are?""I do not know. What is there peculiar about them?""Perhaps you have never noticed how people generally dot them. No one, except, perhaps, a schoolboy over his round-hand, ever dots an 'i' at the time he forms a letter; he always waits at least until he has reached the end of the word. Well, now a man who has lost the use of his left eye, and whose sight is generally defective, bends over his paper, and his nose gets in his way when he wants to dot his 'i's.' The consequence is that it is all done haphazard. Now look at the dots of these 'i's'; they are here, there, and everywhere; sometimes—but rarely—before the letter; more often behind it; sometimes too high up; sometimes too low down. You can see at once that it is all done by faith and not by sight."I looked more carefully at the writing; it was indeed as Gresham had said. I thought at once of Count Shrievaljieff. Every one knew that he was blind of the left eye. He


had acted as secretary to the congress. If, as seemed certain, it was one of the plenipotentiaries who had betrayed the secret, Count Shrievaljieff must be the man. I hastened with my new piece of information to the prince, but I had to wait till the evening before I could see him, as he had just gone back to the congress.When we met, I told him what Gresham had said about the handwriting. The prince was no great believer in graphology, and said so."Still," I said, "just consider the actual position of affairs. Some one has divulged the main provisions of the treaty. That some one must be one of the plenipotentiaries, for no one else has had an opportunity of knowing them. And if it is one of them, the cui bono question arises: which of them has the greatest interest in upsetting the thirteenth clause?""Undoubtedly," said the prince, "Shrievaljieff is the man most interested in upsetting that clause. So much must be patent to everybody. Still, I say again, it is impossible



that he can have betrayed us. He may not be over-scrupulous, but, still, he would not violate the essential principles of diplomacy.""But, consider again," I said, "the count is the man to whom the cui bono test applies. A man between twenty-five and sixty—that is nothing; but also a man blind of the left eye—that is really significant. Is there any other of the plenipotentiaries blind of the left eye?""It is very strange," said the prince, shaking his head mournfully. "This business will kill me; I can think of nothing else but that unlucky thirteenth clause."Whilst we were thus discussing the affair, the post came, and from among the pile of letters and papers the prince picked out the London Dial. His delicate jewelled hand trembled visibly as he opened it. One glance was sufficient, and he passed it on to me with a doleful expression."There it is," he said. "The most sacred of secrets published ubi et orbi, and all my labour thrown away. It is monstrous!"CHAPTER V.As I said at the beginning, this audacious publication of the treaty whilst the congress was still sitting caused the most profound sensation throughout Europe. Even Le Grand, ambitious as he was, must have been satisfied. His name was in every one's mouth. flow had he possibly managed to pluck from the diplomatists their secret?For no one doubted--or, indeed, could doubt--that, in the main, the treaty, as published in the Dial, was genuine. To the initiated it was clear that it could not be a mere clever invention.The diplomatists themselves were in despair. True, they maintained an appearance of serenity, but they were really at their wits' end to know how to account for the trick that had been played upon them, and how to repair the mischief that had been done.Of course, they did what diplomatists always do in such cases—they disavowed the treaty as published. They could do this safely, as it


was now a certainty that some of the most important provisions would have to be modified. But this disavowal is such a stereo-typed resource of embarrassed diplomacy that it did not deceive even the outside world. And, of course, it could have no effect on their own state of mind. They looked askance at each other. They felt themselves betrayed by one of their own number. It seemed as if any further sitting would be useless. Yet, for the sake of appearances, they continued to meet and discuss the clauses of the treaty. But, as Count Shrievaljieff said to the prince, as far as secrecy was concerned, it seemed as if they might as well meet in the market-place as in the Foreign Office.Here, however, I may at once say, that these fears proved unfounded. The secrecy of their proceedings was not again violated, and in due course they pieced together another treaty, which did--not suffer from premature publication, and which holds good to the present day.It was generally thought that their success at the second attempt was due to Le Grand's


absence. He had brought off his great coup, and he took care not to return. It might have been even dangerous for him to do so, for it was certainly through his agency that the draft treaty, however obtained, had been published. Whether he ever suspected me of having tricked him in the matter of the envelope I do not know. He never made any suggestion to that effect. In fact, he was not at all the man to allow that he could by any possibility be outwitted. And in everything connected with the treaty he kept up an air of mystery, content with the evident fact that in some way or other he had accomplished what had seemed to be impossible.And yet, great though his triumph seemed to be, I doubt whether to the day of his death he knew exactly how he had been enabled to achieve it. And it was by the merest chance that I lighted upon the discovery.The Dial with its unwelcome contents had reached the prince on Saturday. On the Sunday evening I visited him again. He was


lying on the couch, as usual, and looked very wretched."Do you mind writing a letter or two for me?" he said, after the first preliminary greetings. "You are always so good and kind. And I have been obliged to give Maubeuge a holiday today."Of course I was delighted to be of any service. He dictated one or two short notes, and, when I had written them, he said--"I hope you will dine with me this evening. I am really dependent on you to cheer me up a little. This fatal business of the treaty has been such a grievous blow to me."I accepted his invitation."Now don't run away meanwhile," he added. "I generally take a little nap, as you know, at this time, but I shan't be asleep more than half an hour. Meanwhile there are the journals, or perhaps you have some letters to write.""Thank you," I said, "that will suit me admirably. I will plunge into my correspondence while you take a dive into oblivion."The prince answered with a smile.Then he poured some chloroform on the handkerchief, threw the latter over his face, and was asleep almost instantly. Meanwhile, I had taken a sheet of paper and had written a few lines, when, to my great astonishment, I heard a muffled voice in the room. For the moment I did not realize that it was the prince who was speaking. When I did realize it, I pricked up my ears involuntarily. What was he babbling about in his narcotic slumber? Heavens! It was all about the one subject that dominated his mind at the moment—the treaty. Some of the phrases were confused, inconsequent, fragmentary; but over and over came from beneath the handkerchief the words, "thirteenth clause" (in French, of course), and then in fashion, more or less disconnected, the actual provision of the unlucky clause.I sat there paralyzed with astonishment; the pen had fallen from my hand; I sat as one in a dream. Here, then, at last, was the solution of the mystery. Nor was the villain far to seek. Maubeuge, sitting where I sat now, had taken down these unconscious and involuntary confidences, had pieced them


cunningly together, and then had sold the secret to Le Grand.How strange, how touching, it was that the most experienced diplomatist in Europe should thus have babbled like a child-—that the man of all others who was most anxious to keep the treaty secret should have been the very one to divulge its most important provisions!I was still sitting lost in wonder, when I heard a slight noise behind me. I turned sharply round; the door was open, and Maubeuge was standing on the threshold. The prince was still innocently prattling of things that meant the ruin or salvation of empires. Maubeuge, from under his heavy eyebrows, cast a dull and yet most anxious glance first at him, then at me. As he did so I noticed that his complexion turned to lead, and the whole fashion of his face was altered. No doubt he had taken in the whole situation at a glance, and knew that his villainy had been detected, for without a single word he turned round and withdrew, closing the door behind him.I followed him at once. My anger was keen against him. I should have liked to take him by the throat and hand him over to the police. But for the sake of my dear friend, the prince, I could not do this. He must never know what he had done. The knowledge that he had betrayed himself and the sovereign he loved so well would have overwhelmed him. In all probability he would never have recovered from the shock. It was for this reason that I waited till his death before publishing this revelation.So I reined in my anger as I went in pursuit of Maubeuge. I followed so swiftly on his heels that I caught him in the corridor."Monsieur Maubeuge," I said, " I must ask you to favour me with an interview."He did not venture to decline the invitation, but followed me submissively into another room belonging to the prince's suite of apartments.There I came to the point at once."Monsieur Maubeuge," I said, "I think it would be well for you to retire at once from the prince's service."He was far too clever to bluster in a tête-à-tête. He knew that in my eyes he was irretrievably degraded, and there was no one else present whose opinion he could influence. So he took my remarks in a simple, business-like fashion."I must give some excuse," he said."Is it not the case," I asked, suddenly remembering what Gresham had told me, "that your eyes are very bad, and that you have altogether lost the sight of your left eye?"He looked greatly surprised."It is true," he said, "but I did not know that any one knew it except myself.""Well, that is excuse enough. Say that your eyes are so bad that you must at any sacrifice resign your position at once. At once—you understand me. On that condition I will refrain from communicating with the police. You will have to sacrifice a month's wages, but you will be able to afford that now. Besides, Monsieur Le Grand may find you employment. I recommend you not to remain in this country.""I shall he pleased to carry out your wishes, sir," said the rascal suavely."That will do, then," T said. "You can go now. I hope that your eyesight will improve, and that your hearing may be dulled a little in the interest of honesty."He disappeared, and I never saw or heard of him again. If he is still alive, he passes probably under an assumed name.As I have already said, the prince is dead, and Le Grand is dead; I alone remain of those who were mixed up in the affair, and I am glad to have this opportunity of clearing up one of the most curious episodes in modern history.
THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE
BY PROFESSOR BRANDER MATTHEWS.
CHAPTER I.THE telegraph messenger looked again at the address on the envelope in his hand, and then scanned the house before which he was standing. It was an old-fashioned building of brick, two stories high, with an attic above; and it stood in an old-fashioned part of lower New York, not far from the East River. Over the wide archway there was a small weather-worn sign, "Ramapo Steel and Iron Works;" and over the smaller door alongside was a still smaller sign, "Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co."When the messenger boy had made out the name, he opened this smaller door and entered


the long narrow store. Its sides and walls were covered with bins and racks containing sample steel rails and iron beams, and coils of wire of various sizes. Down at the end of the store were desks where several clerks and book-keepers were at work.As the messenger drew near, a red-headed office boy blocked the passage, saying, somewhat aggressively, "Well?""Got a telegram for Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co.," the messenger explained, pugnaciously thrusting himself forward."In there!" the office boy returned, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the extreme end of the building, an extension, roofed with glass and separated by a glass screen from the space where the clerks were at work.The messenger pushed open the glazed door of this private office, a bell jingled over his head, and the three occupants of the room looked up."Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co.?" said the messenger, interrogatively, holding out the yellow envelope."Yes," responded Mr. Whittier, a tall, handsome old gentleman, taking the telegram. "You sign, Paul."The youngest of the three, looking like his father, took the messenger's book, and, glancing at an old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner, he wrote the name of the firm and the hour of delivery. He was watching the messenger go out. His attention was suddenly called to subjects of more importance by a sharp exclamation from his father."Well, well, well," said the elder Whittier, with his eyes fixed on the telegram he had just read. "This is very strange—very strange indeed!""What's strange?" asked the third occupant of the office, Mr. Wheatcroft, a short, stout, irascible-looking man with a shock of grizzly hair.For all answer Mr. Whittier handed to Mr. Wheatcroft the thin slip of paper.No sooner had the junior partner read the paper than he seemed angrier than ever."Strange!" he cried. "I should think it


was strange! confoundedly strange--and deuced unpleasant too.""May I see what it is that's so very strange?" asked Paul, picking up the despatch."Of course you may see it," growled Mr. Wheatcroft; "and let us see what you can make of it."The young man read the message aloud: "Deal off. Can get quarter cent better terms. Carkendale."Then he read it again to himself. At last he said--"I confess I don't see anything so very mysterious in that. We've lost a contract, I suppose; but that must have happened lots of times before, hasn't it?""It's happened twice before, this fall," returned Mr. Wheatcroft fiercely, "after our bid had been practically accepted and just before the signing of the final contract!""Let me explain, Wheatcroft," interrupted the elder Whittier gently. "You must not expect my son to understand the ins and outs of this business as we do. Besides, he has only been in the office ten days.""I don't expect him to understand," growled Wheatcroft. "How could he? I don't understand it myself!""Close that door, Paul," said Mr. Whittier. "I don't want any of the clerks to know what we are talking about. Here are the facts in the case, Paul, and I think you will admit that they are certainly curious," began Mr. Whittier. "Twice this fall, and now a third time, we have been the lowest bidders for important orders, and yet, just before our bid was formally accepted, somebody has cut under us by a fraction of a cent and got the job. First we thought we were going to get the building of the Barataria Central's bridge over the Little Makintosh River, but in the end it was the Tuxedo Steel Company that got the contract. Then there was the order for the fifty thousand miles of wire for the Transcontinental Telegraph; we made an extraordinarily low estimate on that. We wanted the contract, and we threw off, not only our profit, but even allowances for office expenses, and yet five minutes before the last bid had to be in, the Tuxedo Company put in an offer only a


hundred and twenty-five dollars less than ours. Now comes the telegram today. The Methusalah Life Insurance Company is going to put up a big building; we were asked to estimate on the steel framework. We wanted that work—times are hard, and there is little doing as you know, and we must get work for our men if we can. We meant to have this contract if we could. We offered to do it at what was really actual cost of manufacture—without profit, first of all, and then without any charge at all for office expenses, for interest on capital, for depreciation of plant. The vice-president of the Methusalah, the one who attends to all their real estate, is Mr. Carkendale. He told me yesterday that our bid was very low, and that we were certain to get the contract. And now he sends me this," and Mr. Whittier picked up the telegram again."But if we were going to do it at actual cost of manufacture," said the young man, "and somebody else underbids us, isn't some-body else losing money on the job?""That's no sort of satisfaction to our men," retorted Mr. Wheatcroft, cooking himself


before the fire. "Somebody else—confound him!—will be able to keep his men together and to give them the wages we want for our men. Do you think 'somebody else' is the Tuxedo Company again?""What of it?" asked Mr. Whittier. "Surely you don't suppose--""Yes I do," interrupted Mr. Wheatcroft swiftly. "I do, indeed. I haven't been in this business thirty years for nothing. I know how hungry we get at all times for a big fat contract; and I know we would any of us give a hundred dollars to the man who could tell us what our chief rival has bid. It would be the cheapest purchase of the year, too.""Come, come, Wheatcroft," said the elder Whittier, "you know we've never done anything of that sort yet, and I think you and I are too old to be tempted now.""Nothing of the sort," snorted the fiery little man; "I'm open to temptation this very moment. If I could know what the Tuxedo people are going to bid on the new steel rails of the Springfield and Athens, I'd give a thousand dollars.""If I understand you, Mr. Wheatcroft," Paul Whittier asked, "you are suggesting that there has been something done that is not fair?""That's just what I mean," Mr. Wheatcroft declared vehemently."Do you mean to say that the Tuxedo people have somehow been made acquainted with our bids?" asked the young man."That's what I'm thinking now," was the sharp answer. "I can't think of anything else. For two months we haven't been successful in getting a single one of the big contracts. We've had our share of the little things, of course, but they don't amount to much. The big things that we really wanted have slipped through our fingers. We've lost them by the skin of our teeth every time. That isn't accident, is it? Of course not! Then there's only one explanation—there's a leak in this office somewhere.""You don't suspect any of the clerks, do you, Mr. Wheatcroft?" asked the elder Whittier sadly."I don't suspect anybody in particular," returned the junior partner, brushing his hair


up the wrong way. "And I suspect everybody in general. I haven't an idea who it is, but it's somebody! It must be somebody-—and if it is somebody, I'll do my best to get that somebody into the clutches of the law.""Who makes up the bids on these important contracts?" asked Paul."Wheatcroft and I," answered his father. "The specifications are forwarded to the works, and the engineers make their estimates of the actual cost of labour and material. These estimates are sent to us here, and we add whatever we think best for interest and for expenses, and for wear and tear and for profit.""Who writes the letters making the offer--the one with actual figures, I mean?" the son continued."I do," the elder Whittier explained; "I have always done it.""You don't dictate them to a typewriter?" Paul pursued."Certainly not," the father responded; "I write them with my own hand, and what's more, I take the press copy myself, and there


is a special letter-book for such things. This letter-book is always kept in the safe in this office; in fact, I can say that this particular letter-book never leaves my hands except to go into that safe. And, as you know, nobody has access to that safe except Wheatcroft and me."And the major," corrected the junior partner."No," Mr. Whittier explained, "Van Zandt has no need to go there now.""But he used to," Mr. Wheatcroft persisted."He did once," the senior partner returned, "but when we bought those new safes outside there in the main office, there was no longer any need for the chief book-keeper to go to this smaller safe; and so last month—-it was while you were away, Wheatcroft--Van Zandt came in here one afternoon, and said that, as he never had occasion to go to this safe, he would rather not have the responsibility of knowing the combination. I told him we had perfect confidence in him.""I should think so!" broke in the explosive Wheatcroft. "The major has been with us


for thirty years now. I'd suspect myself of petty larceny as soon as him.""As I said," continued the elder Whittier, "I told him that we trusted him perfectly, of course. But he urged me, and to please him I changed the combination of this safe that afternoon. You will remember, Wheatcroft, that I gave you the new word the day you came back.""Yes, I remember," said Mr. Wheatcroft. "But I don't see why the major did not want to know how to open that safe. Perhaps he is beginning to feel his years now. He must be sixty, the major; and I've been thinking for some time that he looks worn.""I noticed the change in him," Paul remarked, "the first day I came into the office. He seemed ten years older than he was last winter.""Perhaps his wound troubles him again," suggested Mr. Whittier. "Whatever the reason, it is at his own request that he is now ignorant of the combination. No one knows that but Wheatcroft and I. The letters themselves I wrote myself, and copied myself, and


put them myself in the envelopes I directed myself. I don't recall mailing them myself, but I may have done that too. So you see that there can't be any foundation for your belief, Wheatcroft, that somebody had access to our bids.""I can't believe anything else!" cried Wheatcroft impulsively. "I don't know how it was done, I'm not a detective—but it was done somehow. And if it was done, it was done by somebody! And what I'd like to do is to catch that somebody in the act! That's all! I'd make it hot for him!""You would like to have him out at the Ramapo Works," said Paul, smiling at the little man's violence, "and put him under the steam hammer?""Yes, I would," responded Mr. Wheatcroft. "I would indeed! Putting a man under a steam hammer may seem a cruel punishment, but I think it would cure the fellow of any taste for prying into our business in the future.""I think it would get him out of the habit of living," the elder Whittier said, as the tall


clock in the corner struck one. "But don't let's be so brutal. Let's go to lunch and talk the matter over quietly. I don't agree with your suspicion, Wheatcroft, but there may be something in it."Five minutes later, Mr. Whittier, Mr. Wheatcroft, and the only son of the senior partner left the glass-framed private office and, walking leisurely through the long store, passed into the street.They did not notice that the old book-keeper, Major Van Zandt, whose high desk was so placed that he could overlook the private office, had been watching them ever since the messenger had delivered the despatch. He could not read the telegram ; he could not hear the comments; but he could see every movement and every gesture and every expression. He gazed from one speaker to the other, almost as though he was able to follow the course of the discussion ; and when the three members of the firm walked past his desk he found himself staring at them as if in a vain effort to read on their faces the secret of the course of action they had resolved upon.CHAPTER II.AFTER luncheon, as it happened, both the senior and the junior partner of Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co. had to attend meetings, and they went their several ways, leaving Paul to return to the office alone.When he came opposite to the house which bore the weather-beaten sign of the firm, he stood still for a moment and looked across with mingled pride and affection. The building was old-fashioned, so old-fashioned, indeed, that only a long-established firm could afford to occupy it. It was Paul Whittier's great-grandfather who had founded the Ramapo Works. There had been cast the cannon for many of the ships of the little American navy that gave such a good account of itself in the war of 1812. Again, in 1848, had the house of Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co.—the present Mr. Wheatcroft's father having been taken into partnership by Paul's grandfather—been able to be of service to the government of


the United States. All through the four years that followed the firing on the flag in 1861, the Ramapo Works had been run day and night. When peace came at last, and the people had leisure to expand, a large share of the rails needed by the new overland roads, which were to bind the east and west together in iron bonds, had been rolled by Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co. Of late years, as Paul knew, the old firm seemed to have lost some of its early energy, and, having young and vigorous competitors, it had barely held its own.That the Ramapo Works should once more take the lead was Paul Whittier's solemn purpose, and to this end he had been carefully trained. He was now a young man of twenty-five, a tall handsome fellow, with a full moustache over his firm mouth, and with clear quick eyes below his curly brown hair. He had spent four years in college, carrying off honours in mathematics, was popular with his classmates, who made him class-poet, and in his senior year he was elected president of the college photographic society. He had gone to a technological institute, where he had made


himself master of the theory and practice of metallurgy. After a year of travel in Europe, where he had investigated every important steel and iron works he could get into, he had come home to take a desk in the office.It was only for a moment that he stood on the sidewalk opposite, looking at the old building. Then he threw away his cigarette and went over. Instead of entering the long store, he walked down the alleyway left open for the heavy waggons. When he came opposite to the private office in the rear of the store, he examined the doors and the windows carefully, to see if he could detect any means of ingress other than those open to everybody.There was no door from the private office into the alleyway or into the yard. There was a door from the alleyway into the store, opposite to the desks of the clerks, and within a few feet of the door leading from the street into the private office.Paul passed through this entrance, and found himself face to face with the old book-keeper, Van Zandt, who was following all his movements with a questioning gaze."Good afternoon, major," said Paul pleasantly. "Have you been out for your lunch yet?""I always get my dinner at noon," the book-keeper gruffly answered, returning to his books.As Paul walked on, he could not but think that the major's manner was ungracious. And the young man remembered how. cheerful the old man had been, and how courteous always, when the son of the senior partner, while still a schoolboy, used to come to the office on Saturdays.Paul had always delighted in the office, and the store, and the yard behind, and he had spent many a holiday there, and Major Van Zandt had always been glad to see him, and had willingly answered his myriad questions.Paul wondered why the bookkeeper's manner was now so different. Van Zandt was older, but he was not so very old, not more than sixty, and old age in itself is not sufficient to make a man surly, and to sour his temper. That the major had had trouble in his family was well known. His wife had been flighty and foolish, and it was believed that she had


run away from him ; and his only son was a wild lad, who had been employed by Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co., out of regard for the father, and who disgraced himself beyond forgiveness. Paul recalled vaguely that the young fellow had gone west somewhere, and had been shot in a mining-camp, after a drunken brawl in a gambling-house.As Paul entered the private office he found the porter there, putting coal on the fire.Stepping back to close the glass door behind him, that they might be alone, he said--"Mike, who shuts up the office at night?""Sure I do, Mr. Paul," was the prompt reply."And you open it in the morning?" the young man asked."I do that!" Mike responded."Do you see that these windows are always fastened on the inside?" was the next query."Yes, Mr. Paul," the porter replied."Well," and the inquirer, hesitated briefly before putting this question, "have you found any of these windows unfastened any morning lately when you came here?""And how did you know that?" Mike returned in surprise."What morning was it?" asked Paul, pushing his advantage."It was last Monday mornin', Mr. Paul," the porter explained, "an' how it was I dunno, for I had every wan of them windows tight on Saturday night—an' Monday mornin' one of them was unfastened whin I wint to open it to let a bit of air into the office here.""You sleep here always, don't you?" Paul proceeded."I've slept here every night for three years now come Thanksgivin'," Mike replied. " I've the whole top of the house to myself. It's an illigant apartment I have there, Mr. Paul.""Who was here Sunday?" was the next question."Sure nobody was here at all," responded the porter, "barrin' they came while I took me a bit of a walk after dinner. An' they couldn't have got in anyway, for I lock up always, and I wasn't gone for an hour, or maybe an hour an' a half.""I hope you will be very careful hereafter," said Paul."I will that," promised Mike, "an' I am careful now, always."The porter took up the coal-scuttle, and then he turned to Paul."How was it ye knew that the winder was not fastened that mornin'?" he asked."How did I know?" repeated the young man. "Oh, a little bird told me."When Mike had left the office, Paul took a chair before the fire, and lighted a cigar. For half an hour he sat silently thinking.He came to the conclusion that Mr. Wheatcroft was right in his suspicion. Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co. had lost important contracts because of underbidding due to knowledge surreptitiously obtained. He believed that some one had got into the store on Sunday while Mike was taking a walk, and that this somebody had somehow opened the safe. There never was any money in that private safe; it was intended to contain only important papers. It did contain the letter-book of the firm's bids, and this is what was wanted


by the man who had got into the office, and who had let himself in by the window, leaving it unfastened behind him. How this man had got in, and why he did not get out by the way he entered, how he came to be able to open the private safe, the combination of which was known only to the two partners—these were questions for which Paul Whittier had no answers.What grieved him when he had come to this conclusion was that the thief—for such the housebreaker was in reality—was probably one of the men in the employ of the firm. It seemed to him almost certain that the man who had broken in knew all the ins and outs of the office. And how could this knowledge have been obtained except by an employé? Paul was well acquainted with the clerks in the outer office. There were five of them, including the old book-keeper, and although none of them had been with the firm as long as the major, no one of them had been there less than ten years. Paul did not know which one to suspect. There was in fact no reason to suspect any particular clerk. And yet that


one of the five men in the main office on the other side of the glass partition within twenty feet of him—-that one of these was the guilty man Paul did not doubt.And therefore it seemed to him not so important to prevent the thing from happening as it was to catch the man who had done it. The thief once caught, it would be easy thereafter for the firm to take unusual precautions. but the first thing to do was to catch the thief. He had come and gone and left no trail. But he must have visited the office at least three times in the past few weeks, since the firm had lost three important con-tracts. Probably he had been there oftener than three times. Certainly he would come again. Sooner or later he would come once too often. All that needed to be done was to set a trap for him.While Paul was sitting quietly in the private office, smoking a cigar with all his mental faculties at their highest tension, the clock in the corner suddenly struck three.Paul swiftly swung around in his chair and looked at it. An old eight-day clock it was,


which not only told the time of day, but pretended also to supply miscellaneous astronomical information. It stood by itself in the corner.For a moment after it struck Paul stared at it with a fixed gaze, as though he did not see what he was looking at. Then a light came into his eyes and a smile flittered across his lips.He turned around slowly and measured with his eye the proportions of the room, the distance between the desks and the safe and the clock. He glanced up at the sloping glass roof above him. Then he smiled again, and again sat silent for a minute. He rose to his feet and stood with his back to the fire. Almost in front of him was the clock in the corner.He took out his watch and compared its time with that of the clock. Apparently he found that the clock was too fast, for he walked over to it and turned the minute hand back. It seemed that this was a more difficult feat than he supposed, or that he went about it carelessly, for the minute hand broke off
P


short in his fingers. A spasmodic movement of his, as the thin metal snapped, pulled the chain off its cylinder, and the weight fell with a crash.All the clerks looked up; and the red-headed office boy was prompt in answer to the bell Paul rang a moment after."Bobby," said the young man to the boy, as he took his hat and overcoat, "I've just broken the clock. I know a shop where they make a speciality of repairing timepieces like that. I'm going to tell them to send for it at once. Give it to the man who will come this afternoon with my card. Do you understand?""Cert," the boy answered. "If he ain't got your card, he don't get the clock.""That's what I mean," Paul responded, as he left the office.Before he reached the door he met Mr. Wheatcroft."Paul," cried the junior partner explosively, "I've been thinking about that—about that—you know what I mean! And I have decided that we had better put a detective on this thing at once!""Yes," said Paul, "that's a good idea. In fact, I had just come to the same conclusion. I--"Then he checked himself. He had turned slightly to speak to Mr. Wheatcroft, and now he saw that Major Van Zandt was standing within ten feet of them, and he noticed that the old book-keeper's face was strangely pale.CHAPTER III.DURING the next week the office of Whittier, Wheatcroft and Co. had its usual aspect of prosperous placidity. The routine work was done in the routine way; the porter opened the office every morning, and the office boy arrived a few minutes after it was opened ; the clerks came at nine and a little later the partners were to be seen in the inner office reading the morning's correspondence.The Whittiers, father and son, had had a discussion with Mr. Wheatcroft as to the most advisable course to adopt to prevent the



future leakage of the trade-secrets of the firm. The senior partner had succeeded in dissuading the junior partner from the employing of detectives."Not yet," he said, "not yet. These clerks have all served us faithfully for years, and I don't want to submit them to the indignity of being shadowed—that's what they call it, isn't it?—of being shadowed by some cheap hireling, who may try to distort the most innocent acts into evidence of guilt, so that he can show us how smart he is.""But this sort of thing can't go on for ever," ejaculated Mr. Wheatcroft. "If we are to be underbid on every contract worth having, we might as well go out of the business!""That's true, of course," Mr. Whittier admitted; "but we are not sure that we are being underbid unfairly.""The Tuxedo Co. have taken away three contracts from us in the past two months," cried the junior partner ; "we can be sure of that, can't we?""We have lost three contracts, of course," returned Mr. Whittier, in his most conciliatory



manner, "and the Tuxedo people have captured them. But that may be only a coincidence, after all.""It is a pretty expensive coincidence for us," snorted Mr. Wheatcroft."But because we have lost money," the senior partner rejoined gently, laying his hand on Mr. Wheatcroft's arm, "that's no reason why we should also lose our heads. It is no reason why we should depart from our old custom of treating every man fairly. If there is any one in our employ here who is selling us, why, if we give him enough rope, he will hang himself, sooner or later.""And before he suspends himself that way," cried Mr. Wheatcroft, "we may be forced to suspend ourselves.""Come, come, Wheatcroft," said the senior partner, "I think we can afford to stand the loss a little longer. What we can't afford to do is to lose our self-respect by doing something irreparable. It may be that we shall have to employ detectives, but I don't think the time has come yet.""Very well," the junior partner declared,



yielding an unwilling consent. "I don't insist on it. I still think it would be best not to waste any more time—but I don't insist. What will happen is that we shall lose the rolling of those steel rails for the Springfield and Athens road—that's all."Paul Whittier had taken no part in this discussion. He agreed with his father, and saw he had no need to urge any further argument.Now he looked up and asked when they intended to put in the bid for the rails. His father then explained that they were expecting a special estimate from the engineers at the Ramapo Works, and that it probably would be Saturday before this could be discussed by the partners and the exact figures of the proposed contract determined."And if we don't want to lose that contract for sure," insisted Mr. Wheatcroft, "I think we had better change the combination on that safe.""May I suggest," said Paul, " that it seems to me to be better to leave the combination as it is. What we want to do is not to get this



Springfield and Athens contract so much as to find out whether some one really is getting at the letter-book. Therefore we mustn't make it any harder for the some one to get at the letter-book.""Oh, very well," Mr. Wheatcroft assented, a little ungraciously, "have it your own way. But I want you to understand, now, that I think you are only postponing the inevitable!"And with that the subject was dropped. For several days the three men who were together for hours in the office of the Ramapo Iron and Steel Works refrained from any discussion of the question which was most prominent in their minds.It was on Wednesday that the tall clock that Paul Whittier had broken returned from the repairers. Paul himself helped the men to set it in its old place in the corner of the office, facing the safe, which occupied the corner diagonally opposite.It so chanced that Paul came down late on Thursday morning, and perhaps this was the reason that a pressure of delayed work kept him in the office that evening long after every



one else. The clerks had all gone, even Major Van Zandt, always the last to leave—and the porter had come in twice before the son of the senior partner was ready to go for the night. The gas was lighted here and there in the long, narrow, deserted store, as Paul walked through it from the office to the street. Opposite, the swift twilight of a New York November had already settled down on the city."Can't I carry yer bag for ye, Mister Paul?" asked the porter, who was showing him out."No, thank you, Mike," was the young man's answer. "That bag has very little in it. And besides, I haven't got to carry it far."The next morning Paul was the first of the three to arrive. The clerks were in their places already, but neither the senior nor the junior partner had yet come. The porter happened to be standing under the waggon archway as Paul Whittier was about to enter the store.The young man saw the porter, and a mischievous smile hovered about the corners of his mouth."Mike," he said, pausing on the doorstep, "do you think you ought to smoke while you are cleaning out our office in the morning?""Sure I haven't had me pipe in me mouth this mornin' at all," the porter answered, taken by surprise."But yesterday morning?" Paul pursued."Yesterday mornin'!" Mike echoed, not a little bit puzzled."Yesterday morning, at ten minutes before eight, you were in the private office smoking a pipe.""But how did you see me, Mr. Paul?" cried Mike in amaze. "Ye was late in comin' down yesterday, wasn't ye?"Paul smiled pleasantly"A little bird told me," he said."If I had the bird I'd wring his neck for tellin' tales!""I don't mind your smoking, Mike," the young man went on, "that's your own affair; but I'd rather you didn't smoke a pipe while you are tidying up the private office.""Well, Mister Paul, I won't do it again," the porter promised."And I wouldn't encourage Bob to smoke, either," Paul continued."I encourage him?" inquired Mike."Yes," Paul explained, "yesterday morning you let him light his cigarette from your pipe—didn't you?""Were you peekin' in thro' the winder, Mister Paul?" the porter asked eagerly. "Ye saw me, an' I never saw ye at all.""No," the young man answered; "I can't say that I saw you myself. A little bird told me."And with that he left the wondering porter, and entered the store. Just inside the door was the office boy, who hastily hid an unlighted cigarette as he caught sight of the senior partner's son.When Paul saw the red-headed boy, he smiled again mischievously."Bob," he began, "when you want to see who can stand on his head the longest, you or Danny the bootblack, don't you think you could choose a better place than the private office?"The office boy was quite as much taken by



surprise as the porter had been, but he was younger and quicker witted."And when did I have Danny in the office?" he asked defiantly."Yesterday morning," Paul answered, still smiling, "a little before half-past eight.""Yesterday mornin'?" repeated Bob, as though trying hard to recall all the events of the day before. "Maybe Danny did come in for a minute.""He played leapfrog with you all the way into the private office," Paul went on, while Bob looked at him with increasing wonder."How did you know?" the office boy asked frankly. "Were you lookin' through the window?""How do I know that you and Danny stood on your heads in the corner of the office with your heels against the safe, scratching off the paint! Next time I'd try the yard, if I were you. Sports of that sort are more fun in the open air."And with that parting shot Paul went on his way to his own desk, leaving the office boy greatly puzzled.Later in the day Bob and Mike exchanged confidences, and neither was ready with an explanation."At school," Bob declared, "we used to think teacher had eyes in the back of her head. She was everlastingly catchin' me when I did things behind her back. But Mr. Paul beats that, for he see me doin' things when he isn't here.""Mister Paul wasn't here, for sure, yesterday mornin'," Mike asserted; "I'd take me oath o' that. An' if he wasn't here, how could he see me givin' ye a light from me pipe? Answer me that! He says it's a little bird told him—but that's not it, I'm thinkin'. Not but that they have clocks with birds into 'em, that come out and tell the time o' day, cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!' An' if that big clock he broke last week had a bird that could tell time that way, I'd break the thing quick—so I would.""It ain't no bird," said Bob. "You can bet your life on that. No birds can't tell him nothin', more'n you can catch 'em by putting salt on their tails. I know what it



is Mr. Paul does—at least, I know how he does it. It's second sight that's what it is! I see a man onct at the theayter an' he--"But perhaps it is not necessary to set down here the office boy's recollection of the trick of an ingenious magician.About half an hour after Paul had arrived at the office Mr. Wheatcroft appeared. The junior partner hesitated in the doorway for a second, and then entered.Paul was watching him, and the same mischievous smile flashed over the face of the young man."You need not be alarmed today, Mr. Wheatcroft," he said. "There is no fascinating female waiting for you this morning.""Confound the woman!" ejaculated Mr. Wheatcroft testily. "I couldn't get rid of her.""But you subscribed for the book at last," asserted Paul, "and she went away happy.""I believe I did agree to take one copy of the work she showed me," admitted Mr. Wheatcroft a little sheepishly. Then he looked up suddenly. "Why, bless my



soul," he cried, "that was yesterday morning—""Allowing for differences of clocks," Paul returned, "it was about ten minutes to ten yesterday. morning.""Then how do you come to know anything about it? I should like to be told that!" the junior partner inquired. "You did not get down till nearly twelve.""I had an eye on you," Paul answered as the smile again flitted across his face."But I thought you were detained all the morning by a sick friend," insisted Mr. Wheatcroft."So I was," Paul responded. "And if you won't believe I have an eye on you, all I can say then is that a little bird told me.""Stuff and nonsense," cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "Your little bird has two legs, hasn't it?""Most birds have," laughed Paul."I mean two legs in a pair of trousers," explained the junior partner, rumpling his grizzled hair with an impatient gesture.You see how uncomfortable it is to be



shadowed," said Paul, turning the topic, as his father entered the office.That Saturday afternoon Mr. Whittier and Mr. Wheatcroft agreed on the bid to be made on the steel rails needed by the Springfield and Athens road. While the elder Mr. Whittier wrote the letter to the railroad with his own hand, his son manoeuvred the junior partner into the outer office where all the clerks happened to be at work, including the old book-keeper. Then Paul managed his conversation with Mr. Wheatcroft so that any one of the five employés who chose to listen to the apparently careless talk should know that the firm had just made a bid on another important contract. Paul also spoke as though his father and himself would probably go out of town that Saturday night to remain away till Monday morning.Just before the store was closed for the night, Paul Whittier wound up the eight-day clock that stood in the corner opposite the private safe.
CHAPTER IV.ALTHOUGH the Whittiers, father and son, spent Sunday out of town, Paul made an excuse to the friends whom they were visiting, and returned to the city by a midnight train. Thus he was enabled to present himself at the office of the Ramapo Works very early on Monday morning.It was so early, indeed, that no one of the employés had arrived when the son of the senior partner, bag in hand, pushed open the street door and entered the long store, at the far end of which the porter was still tidying up for the day's work."An' is that you, Mister Paul?" Mike asked in surprise, as he came out of the private office to see who the early visitor might be. "An' what brought ye out o' your bed before breakfast like this?""I always get out of bed before breakfast," Paul answered. "Don't you?""Would I get up if I hadn't got to get up to get my livin'?" the porter replied.Paul entered the office, followed by Mike, still wondering why the young man was there at that hour.After a swift glance round the office, Paul put down his bag on the table and turned suddenly to the porter with a question."When does Bob get down here?"Mike looked at the clock in the corner before answering."It'll be ten minutes," he said, "or maybe twenty before the boy does be here today seem' it's Monday mornin' an he'll be tired with not working of Sunday.""Ten minutes," repeated Paul slowly. After a moment's thought he continued, "Then I'll have to ask you to go out for me, Mike.""I can go anywhere ye want, Mister Paul," the porter responded."I want you to go--" began Paul, "I want you to go--" and he hesitated, as though he was not quite sure what it was he wished the porter to do, "I want you to go to the office of the Gotham Gazette and get me two copies of yesterday's paper. Do you understand?""Maybe they won't be open so early in the mornin'," said the Irishman."That's no matter," said Paul, hastily correcting himself. "I mean that I want you to go there now, and get the papers if you can. Of course, if the office isn't open, I shall have to send again later.""I'll be goin' now, Mister Paul," and Mike took his hat from a chair and started off at once.Paul walked through the store with the porter. When Mike had gone, the young man locked the front door and returned at once to the private office in the rear. He shut himself in, and lowered all the shades, so that whatever he might do inside could not be seen by any one on the outside.Whatever it was he wished to do, he was able to do it swiftly, for in less than a minute after he had closed the door of the office he opened it again, and came out into the main store with his bag in his hand. He walked leisurely to the front of the store, arriving just in time to unlock the door as the office boy came around the corner, smoking a cigarette.When Bob, still puffing steadily, was about to open the door and enter the store, he looked up and discovered that Paul was gazing at him. The boy pinched the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it outside, and then came in, his eyes expressing his surprise at the presence of the senior partner's son down town at that early hour in the morning.Paul greeted the boy pleasantly, but Bob got away from him as soon as possible. Ever since the young man had told what had gone on in the office when Bob was its only occupant, the office-boy was a little afraid of the young man, as though someway mysterious, not to say uncanny.Paul thought it best to wait for the porter's return, and he stood outside under the archway for five minutes, smoking a cigar, with his bag at his feet.When Mike came back with the two copies of the Sunday newspaper he had been sent to get, Paul gave him the money for them, and an extra quarter for himself. Then the young man picked up his bag again."When my father comes down, Mike," he



said, "tell him I may be a little late in getting back this morning.""An' are ye goin' away now, Mister Paul?" the porter asked. "What good was it that ye got out o' bed before breakfast and come down here so early in the mornin'?"Paul laughed a little."I had a reason for coming here this morning," he answered briefly; and with that he walked away, his bag in one hand, and the two bulky and gaudy papers in the other.Mike watched him turn the corner, and then went into the store again, where Bob greeted him promptly with a request why the old man's son had been getting up by the bright light."If I was the boss or the boss's son either," said Bob, "I wouldn't get up till I was good and ready. I'd have my breakfast in bed if I had a mind to, an' my dinner too, an' my supper. An' I wouldn't do no work, an' I'd go to the theayter every night, and twice on Saturdays.""I dunno why Mister Paul was down," Mike explained. "All he wanted was two o' thim Sunday papers with pictures in thim. What



did he want two o' thim for I dunno. There's reading enough in one o' thim to last me a month of Sundays."It may be surmised that Mike would have been still more in the dark as to Paul Whittier's reasons for coming down town so early that Monday morning, if he could have seen the young man throw the copies of the Gotham Gazette into the first ash-cart he passed after he was out of range of the porter's vision.Paul was not the only member of Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co. to arrive at the office early that morning. Mr. Wheatcroft was usually punctual, taking his seat at his desk just as the clock struck half-past nine. On that Monday morning he entered the store a little before nine.As he walked back to the office, he looked over at the desks of the clerks as though he was seeking some one.At the door of the office he met Bob. "Hasn't the major come down yet?" he asked shortly."No, sir," the boy answered. "He don't never get here till nine.""H'm," grunted the junior partner. "When he does come, tell him I want to see him at once—at once, do you understand?""I ain't deaf and dumb and blind," Bob responded. "I'll steer him in to you as soon as ever he shows up."But, for a wonder, the old book-keeper was late that morning. Ordinarily, he was a model of exactitude. Yet the clock struck nine, and half-past, and ten, before he appeared in the store.Before he changed his coat Bob was at his side."Mr. Wheatcroft, he wants to see you now in a hurry," said the boy.Major Van Zandt paled swiftly, and steadied himself by a grasp of the railing."Does Mr. Wheatcroft wish to see me?" he asked faintly."You bet he does," the boy answered, "an' in a hurry, too. He came bright and early this morning a purpose to see you, an' he's been awaiting for two hours. An' I guess he's got his mad up now."When the old book-keeper, with his blanched



face and his faltering step, entered the private office, Mr. Wheatcroft wheeled around in his chair."Oh, it's you, is it?" he cried. "At last!""I regret that I was late this morning, Mr. Wheatcroft," Van Zandt began."That's no matter!" said the employer. "At least I want to talk about something else.""About something else?" echoed the old man feebly."Yes," responded Mr. Wheatcroft. "Shut the door behind you, please, so that that red-headed cub out there can't hear what I am going to say; and take a chair. Yes; there is something else I've got to say to you, and I want you to be frank with me."Whatever it was that Mr. Wheatcroft had to say to Major Van Zandt, it had to be said under the eyes of the clerks on the other side of the glass partition. And it took a long time saying, for it was evident to any observer of the two men, as they sat in the private office, that Mr. Wheatcroft was trying to force an explanation of some sort from the old



book-keeper, and that the major was resisting his employer's entreaties as best he could. Apparently the matter under discussion was of an importance as grave as to make Mr. Wheatcroft resolutely retain his self-control; and not once did he let his voice break out explosively as was his custom.Major Van Zandt was still closeted with Mr. Wheatcroft when Mr. Whittier arrived. The senior partner stopped near the street door to speak to a clerk; and he was joined almost immediately by his son."Well, Paul," said the father, "have I got down here before you, after all, and in spite of your running away last night?""No," the son responded, "I was the first to arrive this morning—luckily.""Luckily?" echoed his father. "I suppose that means that you have been able to accomplish your purpose—whatever it was. You didn't tell me, you know.""I'm ready to tell you now, father," said Paul, "since I have succeeded."Walking down the store together, they came to the private office.As the old book-keeper saw them, he started up, and made as if to leave the office."Keep your seat, major," cried Mr. Wheatcroft, sternly but not unkindly. "Keep your seat, please." Then he turned to Mr. Whittier."I have something to tell you both," he said, "and I want the major here while I tell you. Paul, may I trouble you to see that the door is closed so that we are out of hearing?""Certainly," Paul responded, as he closed the door."Well, Wheatcroft," Mr. Whittier said, "what is all this mystery of yours now?"The junior partner swung around in his chair and faced Mr. Whittier."My mystery!" he cried. "It's the mystery that puzzled us all, and I've solved it.""What do you mean?" asked the senior partner."What I mean is, that somebody has been opening that safe there in the corner, and reading our private letter-book, and finding out what we were bidding on important contracts. What I mean is, that this man has taken this information, filched from us, and


sold it to our competitors, who were not too scrupulous as to be unwilling to buy stolen goods!""We all suspected this, as you know," the elder Whittier said; "have you anything new now?""Haven't I?" returned Mr. Wheatcroft. "I've found the man! That's all!""You, too?" ejaculated Paul."Who is he?" asked the senior partner."Wait a minute," Mr. Wheatcroft begged. "Don't be in a hurry, and I'll tell you. Yesterday afternoon, I don't know what possessed me, but I felt drawn down town for some reason. I wanted to see if anything was going on down here. I knew we had made that bid, Saturday, and I wondered if anybody would try to get it on Sunday. So I came down about four o'clock, and I saw a man sneak out of the front door of this office. I followed him as swiftly as I could, and as quietly, for I didn't want to give the alarm until I knew more. The man did not see me, as he turned to go up the steps of the elevated railroad station. At the corner I saw his face.""Did you recognize him?" asked Mr. Whittier."Yes," was the answer. "And he did not see me. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, perhaps that's the reason. This morning I called him in here, and he has finally confessed the whole thing."Who--who is it?" asked Mr. Whittier, dreading to look at the old book-keeper, who had been in the employ of the firm for thirty years and more."It is Major Van Zandt!" Mr. Wheatcroft declared.There was a moment of silence; then the voice of Paul Whittier was heard saying--"I think there is some mistake!""A mistake?" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "What kind of a mistake?""A mistake as to the guilty man," responded Paul."Do you mean that the major isn't guilty!" asked Mr. Wheatcroft."That's what I mean," Paul returned."But he has confessed," Mr. Wheatcroft retorted."I can't help that," was the response. "He isn't the man who opened that safe yesterday afternoon at half-past three, and took out the letter-book."The old book-keeper looked at the young man in frightened amazement."I have confessed it," he said piteously. "I have confessed it.""I know you do, major," Paul declared not unkindly. "And I don't know why you do, for you were not the man.""And if the man who confesses is not the man who did it, who is?""I don't know who is--although I have my suspicions," said Paul; "but I have his photograph--taken in the act!"
CHAPTER V.WHEN Paul Whittier said he had photographs of the man who had been injuring the Ramapo Steel and Iron Works, showing him in the act of opening the safe, Mr. Whittier and Mr.


Wheatcroft looked at each other in amazement. Major Van Zandt stared at the young man with fear and shame struggling together in his face.Without waiting to enjoy his triumph, Paul put his hand in his pocket and took out two squares of bluish paper."There," he said, as he handed one to his father, "there is a blue print of the man taken in this office at ten minutes past three yesterday afternoon, just as he was about to open the safe in the corner. You see he is kneeling with his hand on the lock, but apparently just then something alarmed him, and he east a hasty glance over his shoulder. At that second the photograph was taken, and so we have a full-face portrait of the man."Mr. Whittier had looked at the photograph, and he now passed it to the impatient hand of the junior partner."You see, Mr. Wheatcroft," Paul continued, that although the face in the photograph bears a certain family likeness to Major Van Zandt's, all the same that is not a portrait of the major. The man who was here yesterday


was a young man, a man young enough to be the major's son!"The old book-keeper looked at the speaker."Mr. Paul," he began, "you won't be hard on the--" Then he paused abruptly."I confess I don't understand this at all!" declared Mr. Wheatcroft irascibly."I am afraid that I do understand it," Mr. Whittier said, with a glance of compassion at the major."There," Paul continued, handing his father a second azure square, "there is a photograph taken here ten minutes after the first, at 3.20 yesterday afternoon. That shows the safe open, and the young man standing before it with the private letter-book in his hand. As his head is bent over the pages of the book, the view of the face is not so good. But there can be no doubt that it is the same man. You see that, don't you, Mr. Wheatcroft?""I see that, of course," returned Mr. Wheatcroft forcibly. "What I don't see is why the Major here should confess if he isn't guilty!""I think I know the reason for that," said Mr. Whittier gently."There haven't been two men at our books, have there?" asked Mr. Wheatcroft, "the major and also the fellow who has been photographed?"Mr. Whittier looked at the book-keeper for a moment."Major," he said, with compassion in his voice, "you won't tell me that it was you who sold our secrets to our rivals? And you might confess it again and again, I should never believe it. I know you better. I have known you too long to believe any charge against your honesty, even if you bring it yourself. The real culprit, the man who is photographed here, is your son, isn't he? There is no use in your trying to conceal the truth now, and there is no need to attempt it, because we shall be lenient with him for your sake, major."There was a moment's silence, broken by Mr. Wheatcroft suddenly saying--"The major's son? Why, he's dead, isn't he? He was shot in a brawl after a spree somewhere out West two or three years ago. At least that's what I understood at the time.""It is what I wanted everybody to understand at the time," said the bookkeeper, breaking silence at last. "But it wasn't so. The boy was shot, but he wasn't killed. I hoped that it would be a warning to him, and he would make a fresh start. Friends of mine got him a place in Mexico, but luck was against him, so he wrote me, and he lost that. Then an old comrade of mine gave him another chance out in Denver, and for a while he kept straight and did his work well. Then he broke down once more and he was discharged. For six months I did not know what had become of him. I've found out since that he was a tramp for weeks, and that he walked most of the way from Colorado to New York. This fall he turned up in the city, ragged, worn out, sick. I wanted to order him away, but I couldn't. I took him back and got him decent clothes and told him to look for a place, for I knew that hard work was the only thing that would keep him out of mischief. He did not find a place, perhaps he did not look for one. But all at once I


discovered that he had money. He would not tell me how he got it. I knew he could not have come by it honestly; and so I watched him. I spied after him, and at last I found that he was selling you to the Tuxedo Company.""But how could he open the safe?" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "You didn't know the new combination.""I did not tell him the combination I did know," said the old book-keeper with pathetic dignity. "And I didn't have to tell him. He can open almost any safe without knowing the combination. How he does it I don't know; it is his gift. He listens to the wheels as they turn, and he sets first one and then the other; and in ten minutes the safe is open.""How could he get into the store?" Mr. Whittier inquired."He knew I had a key," responded the old book-keeper, "and he stole it from me. He used to watch on Sunday afternoons till Mike went for a walk, and then he unlocked the store, and slipped in and opened the safe.


Two weeks ago Mike came back unexpectedly, and he had just time to get out of one of the rear windows of this office.""Yes," Paul remarked as the major paused, "Mike told me that he found a window unfastened.""I heard you asking about it," Major Van Zandt explained, "and I knew that if you were suspicious he was sure to be caught sooner or later. So I begged him not try to injure you again. I offered him money to go away. But he refused my money; he said he could get it for himself now, and I might keep mine until he needed it. He gave me the slip yesterday afternoon. When I found he was gone I came here straight. The front door was unlocked; I walked in and found him just closing the safe here. I talked to him, and he refused to listen to me. I tried to get him give up his idea, and he struck me. Then I left him, and I went out, seeing no one as I hurried home. That's when Mr. Wheatcroft followed me, I suppose. The boy never came back all night. I haven't seen him since, I don't know where



he is, but he is my son, after all, my only son. And when Mr. Wheatcroft accused me, I confessed at last, thinking you might be easier on me than you would be on the boy.""My poor friend!" said Mr. Whittier sympathetically, holding out his hand, which the major clasped gratefully for a moment."Now we know who was selling us to the Tuxedo people we can protect ourselves hereafter," declared Mr. Wheatcroft. "And in spite of your trying to humbug me into believing you guilty, major, I'm willing to let your son off easy.""I think I can get him a place where he will be out of temptation, because he will be kept hard at work always," said Paul.The old book-keeper looked up as though about to thank the young man, but there seemed to be a lump in his throat which prevented him from speaking.Suddenly Mr. Wheatcroft began explosively, "That's all very well! but what I still don't understand is how Paul got those photographs!"Mr. Whittier looked at his son and smiled."That is a little mysterious, Paul," he said; "and I confess I'd like to know how you did it.""Were you concealed here yourself," asked Mr. Wheatcroft."No," Paul answered. "If you will look around this room you will see that there isn't a dark corner in which anybody could tuck himself.""Then where was the photographer hidden?" Mr. Wheatcroft inquired with increasing curiosity."In the clock," responded Paul."In the clock?" echoed Mr. Wheatcroft, greatly amazed. "Why, there isn't room in the case of that clock for a thin midget, let alone a man."Paul enjoyed puzzling his father's partner."I didn't say I had a man there, or a midget either," he explained. "I said that the photographer was in the clock-and I might have said that the clock itself was the photographer."Mr. Wheatcroft threw up his hands in disgust."Well," he cried, "if you want to go on mystifying us in this absurd way, go on as long as you like! But your father and I are entitled to some consideration, I think.""I'm not mystifying you at all; the clock took the pictures automatically. I'll show you how," Paul returned, getting up from his chair and going to the corner of the office.Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the case of the clock and revealed a small photographic apparatus inside with the tube of the objective opposite the round glass panel in the door of the case. At the bottom of the case was a small electrical battery, and on a small shelf over this was an electromagnet."I begin to see how you did it," Mr. Whittier remarked. "I am not an expert in photography, Paul, and I'd like a full explanation. And make it as simple as you can.""It's a simple thing indeed," said the son. "One day while I was wondering how we could best catch the man who was getting at the books, that clock happened to strike, and


somehow it reminded me that in our photographic society at college we had once suggested that it would be amusing to attach a detective camera to a timepiece, and take snap-shots every few minutes all through the day. I saw that this clock of ours faced the safe, and that it couldn't be better placed for the purpose. So when I had thought out my plan, I came over here and pretended that the clock was wrong, and in setting it right I broke off the minute hand. Then I had a man I know sent for it for repairs; he is both an electrician and an expert photographer. Together we worked out this device. Here is a small snap-shot camera, loaded with a hundred and fifty films; and here is the electrical attachment which connects with the clock, so as to take a photograph every ten minutes from six in the morning to seven at night. We arranged that the magnet should turn the spool of film after every snapshot.""Well," cried Mr. Wheatcroft, "I don't know much about these things, but I read the papers, and I suppose you mean that the


clock 'pressed the button,' and the electricity pulled the string.""That's it precisely," the young man responded. "Of course I wasn't quite sure how it would work, so I thought I would try it first on a week-day when we were all here. It did work all right, and I made several interesting discoveries. I found that Mike smoked a pipe in this office and that Bob played leapfrog in the store and stood on his head in the corner there up against the safe.""The confounded young rascal!" interrupted Mr. Wheatcroft.Paul smiled as he continued."I found also that Mr. Wheatcroft was captivated by a pretty book-agent, and bought two bulky volumes he didn't want."Mr. Wheatcroft looked sheepish for a moment."Oh, that's how you knew, is it?" he growled, running his hands impatiently through his shock of hair."That's how I knew," Paul replied. "I told you I had an eye on you. It was the lone eye of the camera. And on Sunday it kept


watch for us here, winking every ten minutes. From six o'clock in the morning to three in the afternoon it winked ninety times, and all it saw was the same scene, the empty corner of the room here, with the safe in the shadow at first and at last in the full light that poured down from the glass roof over us. But a little after three a man came into the office and made ready to open the safe. At ten minutes past three the clock and the camera took his photograph--in the twinkling of an eye. At twenty minutes past three a second record was made. Before half-past three the man was gone, and the camera winked every ten minutes until seven o'clock quite in vain. I came down early this morning and got the roll of negatives. One after another I developed them, disappointed that I had almost counted a hundred of them without reward. But the ninety-second and the ninety-third paid for all my trouble."Mr. Whittier gave his son a look of pride."That was very ingeniously worked out, Paul; very ingeniously indeed," he said. "If it had not been for your clock here I might


have found it difficult to prove that the major was innocent-especially since he declared himself guilty."Mr. Wheatcroft rose to his feet, to close the conversation."I'm glad we know the truth anyhow," he asserted emphatically. And then, as though to relieve the strain on the old book-keeper, he added, with a loud laugh at his own joke, "That clock had its hands before its face all the time--but it kept its eyes open for all that!""Don't forget that it had only one eye," said Whittier, joining in the laugh; "it had an eye single to its duty.""You know the French saying, father," added Paul, "'In the realm of the blind the one-eyed man is king.'"THE END.PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,LONDON AND BECCLES