Evening Star Newspaper, April 13, 1895, Page 20

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, APRIL 138, 1895-TWENTY-FOUR PAGES. Conyright, 1895, by Bacheller, Johnson & Bacheller.) | side of the law, though some of his co- CHAPTER L ' I think I have recorded in another place Hewitt’s frequent aphorism that “there is nothing in this world that is at all possible that has not happened or is happéning in London.” But there are many strange hap- penings in this matter-of-fact country, and in these matter-of-fact times, that occur far enough from London. Fahtastic crimes, savage revenges, mediaeval superstitious, hellish cruelty, though less in sight, have been no more extinguished by the advent of the nineteenth century than have the ancient races who practiced them in the dark ages. Some cf the races have become civilized and some of the savageries are jheard of no more. But there are survivals in both cases. I say these things, having in my mind a particular case that came under the persona} notice of both Hewitt and myself—an affair that brought one up standirg with a gasp and a doubt of one’s era. My good uncle, the colonel, was not in the habit uf gathering great house parties at his place at Ratherby, partly because the place was not a great one and partly because the colonel’s gout was. But there was an excellent bit of shooting for two or three gurs, and even when he was un- able io leave the house himself my uncle was always pleased if some good friend was-enjcying a gocd day’s sport in his ter- ritory. As to myself, the good old soul was in a perpetual state of offense because I visited him so seldom, though whenever my scant holidays fell in a convenient time of the year I was never insensible to the attractions of the Ratherbvy stubble. More than once had I sat by the old gentleman when his foot was exceptionally trouble- seme, amusjng him with accounts of some of the doings of Martin Hewitt, and more than once had my uncle expressed his de- sire to meet Hewitt himself, and commis- sioned me with an invitation to be pre- sented to Hewitt at the first likely oppor- tunity for a joint excursion to Ratherby. At length I persuadéd Hewitt to take a | Man’: Itself. fortniggt’s rest, coincident with a little yacation of own, and we got down to Ratherby *within a few days past Septem- ber 1, and before a gun had been fired on the colonel’s bit of shooting. The colonel himself we found confined to the house, with his foot on the familiar rest, and though ourselves were the only guests we managed to do pretty well together. It was during this short holiday that the case I have mentioned arosé. When first I began to record some of the more interesting of Hewitt’s operations, I think I explained that such cases as I my- self had not witnessed I should set down in impersonal narrative form, without in- trudizg myself. The present case, so far as Hewitt’s work was concerned, I saw, but there were circumstances which led up to it that we only fully learned afterwards. These circumstances, however, I shall put in their proper place—at the beginning. The Fosters were a fairiy cld Ratherby family, of whom Mr. Joha Foster had, died by an accident at the age of about forty, leaving a wife twelve years younger than himself and three children, two boys and one girl, who was the youngest. The boys grew up strong, healthy,out-of-doors young Tuflians, with all the tastes of sportsmen and all the qualities, good and bad, natural to lads of fairly well-disposed characters allowed a great deal too much of their own way from the beginning. Their only real pad quality was an unfortunate knack of bearing iaalice, and a certain savage vin- dictiveness toward such persons as they chose to consider their enemies. With the louts of the village they were at unceas- ing war, and, indeed, once got jnto serious trouble for peppering the butcher's son (who certainly was a great blackguard) with sparrow shot. At the usual time they Went to Oxford together and were frater- nally ‘sent down together in their second year, after enjoying a spell cf rustication in their first. The_offense was never spe- cifically mentioned about Ratherby, but ‘was mourned of as something particularly. outrageous. It was at this time, sixteen years or thereabout, after the death of their father that Henry and Robert Foster first saw and disliked Mr. Jonas Sneathy, a-director of penny banks and small insurance offices. He visited Ranworth (the Fosters’ house) @ great deal more than the_ brothers thought necessary, and, indeed, it was not for lack of rudeness on their part that Mr. Sneathy failed to understand, as far as they- were concerned, his room was preferred to his company. But their mother welcomed him, and in the end it was announced that Mrs. Foster was to marry again and that after that her name would be Mrs. Sneathy. Hereupon there were violent scenes at Ranworth. Henry and Robert denounced their prospective stepfather as a fortune hunter, snuffler, a hypocrite. They did not stop at broad hints as to the honesty of his penny banks and insurance offices, and the house straightway became a house of bitter strife. The marriage took place, and it was not long before Mr. Sneathy’s real ckaracter became generally obvious. For months he was a model, if somewhat sanc- timonious, husband, and his influence over wife was complete. Then he discov- ered that her property had been strictly secured by her first husband's will, and that, willing as she might be, she was un- able to raise money for her new husband’s Hereupon the Nature Showed The Coachman Replied. efit, and was quite powerless to pass lm any of her preperty by deed of gift. fereupon the man's nature showed itself. ‘ocolish woman as Mrs. Sneathy might be, ¢ was a loving, indeed, an infatuated fe, but Sneathy repaid her devotion by gar derision, never hesitating to state ainly that he had married her for his rofit, and that he considered him- If swindled in the result. More, he even roceeded to blows and other practical tality of a sort only devisable by a ean and ugly nature. This treatment, first secret, became open, and in the dst of it Mr. Sneathy’s penny banks and {surance offices came to a grievous smash Sneathy kept out of jail. eep out of jail he did, however, for ;at once gone to the spot. ‘body hanging—and with the right hand cut 6 t's once, and evrybody wondered why he had taken care to remain on the safe directors learned the taste of penal servi- tude. But he was beggared and lived, as it were, a mere pensioner in his wife's house. Here his brutality increased to a frightful extent, till his wife,already broken in health in consequence, went in_con- stant fear of her life, and Miss Foster passed a life of weeping misery. All her friends’ entreaties, however, could not per- He Found the Body Hanging. suade Mrs. Sneathy to obtain a legal sepa- ration from her husband. She clung .to him, with the excuse—for it was no more— that she hoped to win him to kindness by submission, and with a pathetic infatua- tion that seemed to increase as her bodily strength diminished. Henry and Robert, as may be supposed, were anything but silent in these circum- stances. Indeed, they broke out violently again and again, and more than once went near permanently injuring their worthy stepfather. Once especially, when Sneathy, absolutely without provocation, made a motion to strike his wife in their presence, there was a fearful scene. The two sprang at him like wild beasts, knocked him down and dragged him to the balcony with the intention of throwing him out of the win- dow. But Mrs. Sneathy impeded them, hysterically imploring them to desist. “If you lift your hand to my mother,” roared Henry, gripping Sneathy by the throat till his fat face turned blue and banging his head against the wall, “if you lift your hand to my mother again I'll chop it off—I will! I'll chop it off and drive it down your throat!” : “We'll do worse,” said Robert, white and frantic with passion. ‘We'll hang -you— hang you to the door! You're a proved Har and thief, and you're worse than a common murderer. I'd hang you to the front door for two pence For a few days Sneathy was compara- tively quiet, cowed by their violence. Then he took to venting redoubled spite off his unfortunate wife, always in the absence of her sons, well aware that she would never inferm them. On their part, finding him apparently better behaved, in consequence of their-attack, they thought to maintain his wholesome terror, and scarcely passed him without a menace, taking a fiendish delight in repeating the threats they had used during the scene, by way of keeping it present to his mind. “Take care of your hands, sir,” they would say. “Keep them to yourself, or, by George, we'll take "em off with a Dili hook!" But his revenge for all this Sneathy took, unobserved, on their mother. Truly a miserable household. Soon, however, the brothers left home, and went to London by way of locking for a profession. Henry began a belated study of medicine, and Robert made a pretense of reading for the bar. Indeed, their *de- parture was as much as anything a con- sequence of the earnest entreaty of their sister, who saw that their presence at home was ai exasperation to Sneathy and aggravated her mother's secret sufferings. They went, therefore, but at Ranworth things became worse. Little was allowed to be known outside the house, bu: 1t was broadly said that Mr. Sneathy’s behavior had become outrageous beyond description. Servants left faster than new ones couid be found, and gave their late employer the character of a raving maniac. Once, in- deed, he committed himself in the village, attacking with his walking stick an in- offensive tradesman who had accidentally brushed against him, and immediately run- ning home. This assault lad to le com- pounded for by a payment of fifty pounds. And then Henry and Rebert Foster re- ceived a most urgent letter from their sister, requesting their immediate presence at home. They went at once, of course, and the servants’ account of what occurred was this: When the brothers arrived Mr. Sneathy had just left the house. The brothers were shut up with their mother and sister for about a quarter of an hour, and then left them and came out to the stable yard together. The coachman (he was a new man, who had only arrived the day before) overheard a little of their talk as they stood by the door. Mr. Henry said that “the thing must be done, and at once. There are two of us, so that it ought to be easy enous! And afterward Mr. Robert said: ‘You'll know best how to go about it, as a dcctor.” After which Mr. Henry came toward the coachman and asked in whet direction Mr. Sneathy had gone. The coachman replied that it was in the direc- tion of Ratherby wood, by the winding fcotpath that led through it. But as he spoke he distinctly, with the corner of his eye, saw the other brother take a halter from a hook by the stable door and put it Into his coat pocket. So far for the earller events, whereof I learned later bit by bit. It was on the day of the arrival of the brothers Foster at their old home, and, indeed, little more than two hours after the incident last set down, that news of Mr. Sneathy came to Col. Brett’s place, where Hewitt and I were sit ne and chatting with the colonel. The news Was that Mr. Sneathy had com- mitted suicide—had been found hanging, in fact, to a tree in Ratherby wood, just by the side of the footpath.” CHAPTER II. Hewitt and I had, of course, at this time never heard of Mr. Sneathy, and the colonel told us what little he knew. He had never spoken to the man, he said—indeed nobody in the place outside Ranworth would have anything to do with him. “He's certainly been an unholy scoundrel over those poor people’s banks,” said my uncle, “and if what they say’s true he’s been about as bad as possible to his: wretched wife. He must have been pretty miserable, too, with all his scoundrelism, for he was a complete- ly ruined man, without a chance of retriev- ing his position, and detested -by everybody. Indeed, some of his recent doings, if what I have heard is to be relied on, have been yery much those of a madman. So that on he whole I'm not much surprised. Sui- cide’s about the only crime I suppose that he never experimen‘ed with till now, and, indeed, it’s rather a service to the world at large—his only service, I expect.” The colonel sent a man to make further inquiries, and presently this man returned with the news that now it was said that Mr. Sneathy had not committed suicide, ‘but had been murdered. And hard on the ‘man’s heels came Mr. Hardwick, a neighbor of my uncle's and a fellow J. P. He had had the case reported to him, it seemed, as soon as the body had been found and had He found the ft. “It's a murder, Brett,” he said, “without doubt a most horrible case of murder and mutilation. The hand is cut off and taken away, but whether the atrocity was com- mitted before or after the hanging, of course, I can't say. But the missing hand makes it plainly a case of murder, and not suicide. I’ve come to consult you about issuing a warrant, for I think there’s no doubt as to the identity of the murderers.” “That's a good job,” said the colonel, ‘else we should have had some work for Mr. Martin Hewitt here, which wouldn’t be fair, as he’s taking a rest. Who do you think of having arrested?” “The two young Fosters. It’s as plain as it can be—and a most revolting crime, too, tad as Sneathy may have been. They came dewn from London today and went out de- liberately to do it, it’s clear. They were heard of it, asked as to the direc- 7 in which he had gone and followed id with a rope.” “Isn’é that rather’an unusual form of murder—hanging?” Hewitt remarked. “Perhaps it is," Mr. Hardwick replied, “but it’s the case here, plain enough. It seems, in fact, that they had a way of threatening to hang him and even cut off his hand if he used it to strike their moth- er. So that they appear to have carried out what might have seemed mere idle threats in a. diabolically savage way. Of course they may have strangled him first end hanged him after, by way of carrying out their threat and venting their spite on the«mutilated body. But that they did it is plain enough to me. I’ve spent an hour or two over it and feel I am certainly more than justified in ordering their apprehen- sion. Indeed, they were with him at the time, as I’ve found by their tracks on the footpath through the wood.” The colonel turned to Martin Hewitt. “Mr. Hardwick, you must know,” he said, “is by way of being an amateur in your particular line—and a very good amateur, too, I should say, judging by a case or two I have known of in this county.” Hewitt bowed and laughingly expressed a fear lest Mr. Hardwick should come to London and supplant him altogether. “This seems a curious case,” he added. “If you don’t mind, I think I should like to take @ glance at the tracks and whatever other traces there may be, just by way of keep- ing my hand in.” “Certainly,” Mr.Hardwick replied, bright- ening. “I should of all things like to have Mr. Hewitt’s opinion on the observations I have made—just for my own gratification. As to his opinion, there can be no room for doubt. The thing is plain.” With many promises not to be late for dinner, we left my uncle and walked with Mr. Hardwick in the direction of Ratherby wood. It was an unfrequented part, he told us, and by particular care he had managed, he hoped, to prevent the rumor spreading to the village yet, so that we might hope to find the tracks not yet over- laid. It was a man of his own, he said, who, making a short cut through the wood, had come upon the body hanging, and had | run immediately to inform him. With this man he had gone back, cut down the body and made his observations. He had fol- lowed the trail backward to Ranworth, and there had found the new coachman, who had once been in his own service. From him he had learned the doings of the brothers Foster as they left the piace, and from him he had ascertained that they had not yet returned. Then, leaving his man by the body, he had come straight to my uncle's. Presently_we came on the footpath lead- ing from Ranworth across the fields to Ratherby wood. It was a mere trail of bare earth worn by successive feet amid the grass. It was damp, and we all stoop- ed and examined the footmarks that were to be seen on it. They all pointed one way —toward the wood in the distance. “Fortunately, it’s not a greatly fre- quented path,” Mr. Hardwick said. “You see, there are the marks of three pairs of _ -Cried Mr. Hardwick. feet only, and as first Sneathy and then both of the brothers came this way, the footmarks must be theirs. Which are Sneathy’s is plain—they are these large, flat ones. If you notice, they are all dis- tinctly visible in the center of the track, showing plainly that they belong to the man who walked alone,which was Sneathy. Of the others, the marks of the outside feet—the left on the left side and the right on the right side—are often not visible. Clearly they belong to the two men walk- ing side by side, and, more often than not, treading with their outer feet on the grass at the side. And where these happen to drop on the same spot as the marks in the middle, they cover them. Plainly, they are the footmarks of Henry and Robert Fos- ter, made as they followed Sneathy. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Hewitt?” ‘Oh, yes, that’s very plain. You have a better pair of eyes than most people, Mr. Hardwick, and a good idea of using them, too. We will. go on to the wood now. As a matter of fact, I can pretty clearly dis- tinguish most of the other footmarks— those on the grass, but that’s a matter of much training.” We followed the footpath, keeping on the grass at its side, in case it sheuld be desirable to refer again to the foot tracks. For some little distance into the wood the tracks continued as before, those of the brothers overlaying those of Sneathy. Then theré was a difference. Phe path here was broader and muddy, because of the prox- imity of trees, and suddenly the outer footprints separated, and no more overlay the longer ones in the center, but proceed- ed at an* equal distance on either side of them. “See there,” cried Mr. Hardwick, point- ing triumphantly to the spot, “this is where they overtook him, and walked on either side. The body was found only a little fur- ther on—you could see the place now if the path didn’t zig-zag about 60.” Hewitt said nothing, but stopped and-ex- amined the tracks at the sides with great care and evident thought, spanning the distances between them comparatively with “See here? “See,” He Said, “Here it is.” his arms. Then he rose and stepped light- ly from one mark to another, taking care rot to tread on the mark itself. ‘Very good,” he said, shortly, on finishing his examination. “We'll go on.” We went on, and presently came to the place where the body lay. Here the ground sloped frém the left down toward the right and a tiny streamlet, a mere trickle of a foot or two wide, ran across the path. In rainy seasons it was probably wider, for all the earth and clay had been washed away for some feet on each side, leaving flat, bare and very coarse gravel, on which the trail was lost. Just beyond this, and to the left, the body lay on a grassy knoll under the limb of a tree from which still depended a part of the cut rope. It was not a pleasant sight. The man was a soft, fleshy areature, probably rather under than over the medium height, and he lay there, with his stretched neck and pro- truding tongue, a revolting object. His right arm lay by his side, and the stump of the wrist was clotted with black blood. Mr. Hardwick's man was still in charge, seemingly little pleased with his job, and a few yards off stood a couple of country- men, looking on. Hewitt asked from which direction these men had come, and, having ascertained and noted their footmarks, he asked them to stay exactly where they were to avoid confusing such other, tracks as might be seen. Then he addressed himself to his examination. “First,” he said, glancing up at the branch that was scarce a yard above his head, “this rope has been here for some time.” “Yes,” Mr. Hardwick replied, “it’s an old swing rope. Some children ysed it in the summer, but it got partly cut away, and the odd couple of yards has been hang- ing since.” “Ah!” said Hewitt, “then if the Fosters did this they were saved some trouble by the chance and were able to take their hal- ter back with them—and so avoid one chance of detection.” He very closely scru- tinized the top of a tree stump, probably the relic of a tree that had been cut down long before, and then addressed himself to the body. a “did “When you cut it down,” he said, it fall in a heap?” No, my man eased it down to some ex- tent.” “Not on to its face?” hh, no. On to its back, just as it i now.” Mr. Hardwick saw that Hewitt was looking at muddy marks on each of the cor knees, to. one of which a small leaf clung; and at oné or two other marks of the same sort on the fore part of the ETP, “That seems to show pretty plain- ly," he sald, “that he must have struggled with them and was thrown forward,doesn’t Hewitt did not reply, but gingerly lifted the right arm by its sleeve. “Is either of the brothers Foster lefthanded?” he asked. “No, I think not. Here, Barrett, you have seen plenty of their doings—cricket shoot- ing and so on—do you remember if either is lefthanded?” “Nayther, sir,” Mr. Hardwick’s man an- swered. ‘Both on ’em’s righthanded.” Hewitt lifted the lapel of the coat and attentively regarded a small rent in it. The dead man’s hat lay near, and after a few glances at that Hewitt dropped it and turned his attention to the hair. This was coarse and dark anf@ long, and brushed straight back with no parting. “This doesn’t,look very symmetrical, does it?” Hewitt remarked, pointing to the locks over the right ear. They were shorter just there than on the other side, and ap- parently very clumsily cut, whereas in every other part the hair appeared to be rather well and carefully trimmed. Mr. Hardwiek said nothing, but fidgeted a little as though he considered that valuable time was being wasted over irrelevant trivialities. Presently, however, he spoke. “There is very little to be learned from the body, is there?” he said. “I think I’m quite justi- fied in ordering their arrest, eh? Indeed I’ve wasted too much time already.” Hewitt was groping about among some bushes behind the tree from which the corpse had been taken. When he answered he said: “I don’t think I should do any- thing of the sort ‘just now, Mr. Harwick. As a matter of fact, I fancy’’—this word with an emphasis—“that the brothers Fos- ter may not have seen this man Sneathy at all today.” : CHAPTER III. “Not seen him?,jVhy, my dear sir, there’s no question of it. It’s certain absolutely. The evidence is positive. The fact of the threats and of the body being found so is pretty well enough, I should think. But that’s nothing—look at those footmarks. They’ve walked along with him, one each side, without a possible doubt; plainly they were tne last people with him in any case. And you don’t mean to ask anybody to believe that the dead man, even if he hanged himself, cut cff his own hand first. Even if you do, where’s the hand? And even putting aside all these considerations, such a complete case in itself, the Fosters must at least have seen the body as they came past, and yet nothing has been heard of them yet. Why didn’t they spread the alarm? They went straight away in the opposite direction from home—there are their footmarks, which you've not seen yet, beyond the gravel.” ~ Hewitt stepped over to where the patch of clean gravel ceased, at the opposite side to that from which -he had approached the brook, and there, sure enough, were the now familiar footmarks of the brothers — away from the scene of Sneathy’s end. “Yes,” Hewitt said, “I see them. Of course, Mr. Hardwick, you'll do what seems right in your own eyes, and, in any case, not much harm will be done by the arrest beyond a terrible fright for that unfortu- nate family. Nevertheless, if you care for my impression, it is, as I have said, that the Fosters have not seen Sneathy today.” “But what about the hand?” “As to that I have a conjecture, but as yet only a conjecture, and ff I told it you would probably call it absurd—certainly you'd disregard it, and perhaps quite ex- cusably. The case is a complicated one, and if there is anything at all in my con- jecture, one of the most remarkable I have ever had to do with. It interests me in- tensely, and J shall devote a little time to following up the theory I have formed. You have, I suppose, already communi- cated with the police?” “I wired to Shopperton at once as soon as I heard of the matter. It’s a twelve- mile drive, but I wonder the police have not arrived yet. They can’t be long; I don’t know where ‘the village constable has got to, but in any case he wouldn't be much good. But as to your idea that the Fosters can't be suspected—well, nobody could re- spect your opinion, Mr. Hewitt, more than myself, but, liy—just think. The no- tion’s impossible—fifty-fold impossible. As soon as the police arrive I shall have that trail followed and the Fosters apprehended. I should be a fool if I didn’t.” “Very well, Mr. Hardwick,” Hewitt re- plied, “you'll do what you consider your duty, of course, and quite properly. Though I would recommend you to take another look at those three trails in the path. I shall take a look in this direction.” And he turned up by the side of the streamlet, keeping on the gravel at its side. I followed. We climbed the rising ground, and presently among the trees came to the place where the little rill emerged from the broken ground in the highest part of the wood. Here the clean gravel ceased and there was a large patch of wet, clayey ground. Several marks left by the feet of cattle were there, and one or two himan footmarks. Two of these (a pair), the new- est and the most distinct, Hewitt studied carefully, and measured in each direction. “Notice these marks,” he said. “They may be of importance or they may not— that we shall see. Fortunately they are very distinctive—the right foot is a badly worn, one, and a small tag of leather; where the sole is damaged, is doubled over and trodden ‘into the soft earth. Nothing could be luckief. Clearly they are the most recent footsteps in this direction— from the main road, which lies right ahead, through’the rest of the wood.” “Then you think somebody else has been or the scene of the tragedy beside thé victim and the brothers?” I said. “Yes, I do. But hark; there is a vehicle in the road. Can you see between the trees? Yes, it is the police cart. We shall be able to report its arrival to Mr. Hard- wick as we go down.” We turned and walked rapidly down the incline to where we came from. Mr. Hard- wick and his man were still there, and another rustic had arrived to gape. We told Mr. Hardwick that he might expect the police presently, and proceeded along the gravel skirting the.stream, toward the lower part of the wood. Here Hewitt proceeded very cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout on either side for footprints on the neighboring soft ground. There were none, however, for the gravel margin of the stream made a sort of foot- path of itself, and the trees and under- growth were close and thick on each side. At the bottom we emerged from the wood on a small piece of open ground skirting a lane, and here, just by the side of the lane where the stream fell into a trench, Hewitt suddenly pounced on another foot- mark. He was unusually excited. “See,” he said, “here it is—the right foot with its broken leather, and the corre- sponding left foot on the damp edge of the lane itself. He—the man with the broken shoe—has walked on the hard gravel all the way down from the source of the stream, and his is the only trail unaccount- ed for near the body. Come, Brett, we've an adventure on foot. Do you care to let ycur uncle’s dinner go by the board and follow?” “Can't we go back and tell him?” “No—there’s no time to lose, we rthust follow up this man—or at least I must. You go or stay, of course, as you think best.” I hesitated a moment, picturing to myself the excellent colonel as he would appear after waiting dinner an hour or two for us, and deci to go. “At any rate,” I said, “if thé way Mies along the roads we shall probably rifeet somebody going in the direction of Ratherby. But what is your theory? I dort understand at all. I must say eferyt! Hardwick said seem- ed to me té be beyond question. There were tlfe tmgcks to” prove that the three had walked {together to the spot and that the brothers'had gone on alone, and every other circumstance ’pointed the same way. Then, what possible motive coutd anybody else about here haye for such a crime, unless, indeed, it were one of the people defrauded by Sneathy’s late companies.” “The motive,” said Hewitt, ‘is, I fancy, almost extrgordinary—indeed, a weird ore; a thing as of centuries ago. Ask me no questions; I:think you will be a little sur- prised before very: long. But come, we must move.” And we wended our pace alcng the jane. The lane, by the bye, was hard and firm, with scarcely & spot where a track might be left except in places at the sides, and at these places Hewitt never gave a glance. At the end the lane turned into a by-road, and at the turning Hewitt stopped and scrutinized the ground closely. There was nothing like a recognizable footmark to be seen, but almost immediately Hewitt turn- ed off to the right, and we continued our brisk march without a glance at the road. “How did you judge which way to turn then?” I asked. “Didn't fou see?” replied Hewitt. “T’ll show you at the next turning.” Half a mile further on the road forked, and here Hewitt stopped and pointed si- lently to a couple of small twigs, placed crosswise, with the longer twig of the two pointing down the branch of the road to the left. We took the branch to the left and went on. “Our man’s making a mistake,” Hewitt observed. “He leaves his friends’ fying about for his enemies to read.” e@ hurri forward with scarcely a word. I was almost too bewildered by what He { 24 re and ced to ——, any BA ek wee eS 0 what our expedl tla ender, or evén to m2ke an effective inquiry —though after what Hewitt had said I knew that would be useless. Who was this mysterious man with the broken shoe, what had he to do with the murder of Sneathy, what did the mutilation mean, and who were his friends who left him signs and messages by means of eressed twigs? ‘We met a man, by whom I sent a short note to my uncle, and soon after we turn- ed into a main road. Here, again, at the cerner, was the curious message of twigs. A cart wheel had passed over and crushed them, bug it haa not so far displaced them He Pointed Ahead. as to cause any doubt that the direction to take was to the right. At an inn a lit- tle further along we entered and Hewitt bought a pirt of Irish whisky and-a flat bottle to hold it in, as well as a loaf of bread and some cheese, which we carried away wrapped in paper. “This will have to do for our dinner,” Hewitt said, as we emerged. “But we're not going to d common whisky between -us some astonishment. “Never raind,” Hewitt answered, with a smile. “Perhaps we'll find somebody to help us—somebody not so fastidious as yourself as to quality.” = Now we hurried—hurried more than ever, for it was beginning to get dusk and Hew- itt feared a difficulty in finding and reading the twig signs in the dusk. Two more turnings we made, each with its silent direction—the crossed twigs. To me there was something eimost weird and creepy in this curious hunt for the invisible and incomprehensible,guided faithfully and per- sistently at every turn by this now unmis- takable signal.” After the second turning we broke into a trot along a long, winding lane, but presently Hewitt’s hand fell on my shoulder and we stopped. He pointed ahead, where some large object, round a bend ‘of the hedge, was illuminated as though by a light from below. “We will walk now,” Hewitt said. “Re- member that we are on a walking tour, and have cume along here entirely by acci- jent.”” We proceeded at a swinging walk, Hewitt whistling gayly. Soon we turned the bend and I saw that the large object was a traveling van, drawn up with two others on a space of grass by the side of the lane. It was a gipsy encaripment, the caravan having apparently only iately stopped, for @ man was still engaged in tugging at the rope of a tent that stood near the vans. Two or three sullen-looking rufflans lay about a fire which burned in the space left m the middle of the encampment. A wo- man stood at the door of one va@ with a large kettle in her hand, and at the foot of the steps below her a more pleasant- looking old man sat on an inverted pail. Hewitt swung toward the fire from the road, and, with an indescribable mixture of slouch, bow and smile, addressed the com- rany generally with “Kooshto bock, pals!” CHAP®ER Iv. The men on the ground took no notice, but continued to stare doggedly before them. The man working at the tent looked round quickly for a moment, aad the old man on the bucket looked up axd nodded. Quick to see the most likely friend, Hew- itt at once went up to the old man, ex- tending his hand. “Sarshin daddo,” (Good luck, brothers!) he said. “Dell mandy tooty’s varst.” (How do you do, father? Give me your hand.) The old man smiled and shook hands, though without speaking. Then Hewitt proceeded, producing the flat bottle of whisky: ‘Tatty for pawny, chals. Dell mandy the pawny and lell posh the tatty.” (Spirits for water, lads. Give me the water and take your share of the spirits.) The whisky did it. We were Romany ryes in twenty minutes or less, and had already been taking tea With the gipsies for half the time. The two or three we had found about the fire were still re- served, but these, I found, were only half gipsies, and understood very little Ro- many. One or two others, however, includ- ing the old man, were of purer breed, end talked freely, as did one of the wo:nen. They were Lees, they said, and expected to be on Wirksby race course in three days’ time. We, too, were pirimengroes, or tray- One Leg Was Thrown Over the Other. elers, Hewitt explained, and might look to see them on the ‘course. Then he fell to telling gipsy stories, and they to telling others~back, to my intense mystification. Hewitt explained afterward that they were mostly stories of poaching, with now and again a horse-coping anecdote thrown in. Since then I have learned enough of Ro- many to take my part in such a conversa- tion, but at the time a word or two here and there was all I could understand. In all this talk the man we had first noticed stretching the tent rope took very little interest, but lay with his head away from the fire, smoking his pipe. He was a much darker man than any other present—had, in fact, the appearance of a man of even a swarthier race than that of the others about us. Presently, in the middle of a long and, of course, to_me, unintelligible story by the old man, I caught Hewitt’s eye. He lifted one eyebrow almost im- perceptibly, and glanced for a single mo- ment at his walking stick. Then I saw that it was pointed toward the feet of the very dark man, who had not yet spoken. One leg was thrown over the other as he lay, with the soles of his shoes presented toward the fire, and in its glare I saw— that the right sole was worn and broken, and that a small triangular tag of leather was doubled over beneath in just the place we = of from the prints in Ratherby wocd. I could not take my eyes off that man with his broken shoe. There lay the secret. The whole mystery of the fantastic crime in Ratherby wood centered in that shabby ruffian. What was it? But Hewitt went on, talking and joking furiously. The men who were not speaking mostly smoked gloomily, but whenever one spoke he became animated and lively. I had attempted, once or twice, to join in, though my efforts were not ‘particularly successful, except in inducing one man to offer me tobacco from his box—tobacco that almost made me giddy in the smell. He tried some of mine in exchange, and though he praised it with native politeness, and smoked the pipe through, I could see that my Hignett mixture was poor stuff in his estimation, compared with the awful stuff in his own box. = Presently the man with the broken shoe got up, slouched over to ‘his tent and dis- peared. Then said Hewitt (I translate): ‘ou’re not all Lees here, I see?” “Yes, pal, all Lees. ‘ “But he’s not a Lee,” and Hewitt jerked his head toward the tent. “Why not a Lee, pal? We be Lees and he is with us. Thus he is a Lee.” “Oh, yes, of course. But I know he is from over the pawny. Come, I'll guess the tem (country) he comes from—it’s Rouma- nia, 6h? Perhaps the Wallachian part.” The men looked at one another, then old Lee said: ‘You're right, pal—you're cleverer than we took you for. That is what they calls his tem. He is a petulengro (smith), and he comes with us to shoe the gries (horses) and mend the vardoes (vans). But he is with us and so is a Lee.” The talk and the smoke went on, and resently the man with the broken shoe re- turned and lay down in. Then, when the whisky had all gone, and Hewitt, with somé use that I did not ungerstand,; had beget @ piece of cord from one of the men, id Lae in a‘chorus of kooshto radies (good night). By this time it was nearly 10 o'clock. We walked briskly till we came back again to the inn where we had bought the whisky. Here. Hewitt, after some little tréuble, suc- eceded in hiring a village cart, and while the driver was harnessing the horse cut a couple of short sticks from the hedge. These being each divided into two, made four short, stout pieces of something less than six inches long each. Then Hewitt eee] them together in pairs, each pair be- ig connected from center to center by about nine or ten inches of the cord he had brought from the gypsies’ camp. This done, he handed one pair to me. “Hand- cuffs,” he explained, “and no bad ones, either. See—you use them so,” and he passed the cord round my wrist, gripping the two handles and giving them a slight twist that sufficiently convinced me of the excruciating pain that might be inflicted by a vigorous turn, and the utter helplessness of a prisoner thus secured in the hands of captors prepared to use their instruments. “Whom are these for?" I asked. “The man with the broken shoe?” Hewitt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I ex- pect we shall find him out alone about mid- night. You know how to use+these now.” It was fully eleven before the cart was ready and we started. A quarter of a mile or so from the gipsy encampment Hewitt stopped the cert, and gave the driver in- structions to wait. We got through the hedge and made our way on the soft ground behind it, in the direction of the vans and the tent. “Roll up your handkerchief,” Hewitt whispered, “into a tight pad. The moment I grab hint, ram it into his mouth—well in, mind, so that it doesn’t’ easily fall. out. Probably he will be stooping—that will make it easier, we can pull him suddenly backward, Now be quiet.” We kept on till nothing but the hedge divided us from the space whereon stood the encamoment. It was now nearer 12 o'clock than 1i, but the time we waited seemed endless. But time is not eternity, after all, and at last we heard a noise in the tent. A minute after the man we sought was standing before us. He made straight for a gap in the hedge which we had passed on our way, and we crouched low and waited. He emerged on our side of the hedge, with his back toward us, and began walking as we had walked, be- hind the hedge, but in the opposite direc- tion. We followed. He carried something in his hand that looked like a large bundle of sticks and twigs, and he appeared as anxious to be secret as we ourselves. From time to time He Held Some Indistinguishable Ob- fect Over the Flames. he stopped and listened; fortunately there was no moon, or in turning about as he did once or twice he would have observed us. The field sloped downward just before us and there was another hedge at right angles, leading down to a slight hollow. To this hollow the man made his way, and in the shade of the new hedge we follow- ed. Presently he stopped suddenly, stoop- ed, and deposited his bundle on the ground before him. Crouching before it he pro- duced matches from his pocket, struck one, and in a moment had a fire of twigs and smali branches that sent up a- heavy white smoke. What all this portended I could not imagine, but a sense of the weirdness of the whole adventure came upon me unchecked. The horrible corpse in the wood with its severed wrist, Hew- itt’s enigmatical forebodings, the mystexi- ous tracking of the man with the broken shoe, the scenc around the gipsies’ fire, and now the strange behavior of this man, whose connection with the tragedy was so intimate, and yet so inexplicable—all these things contributed to make up a tale of but a few hours’ duration, but of an in- scrutable impressiveness that I began to feel in my nerves. The man bent a thin stick double, and, using it as a pair of tongs, held some in- distinguishable object over the flames be- fore him. Excited as I was I could not help noticing that he bent and held the stick with his left hand. We crept stealth- ily nearer, and as I stood scarcely three yards behind him and looked over his shoulder the form of the object stood out clear and black against the dull red of the flame. It was a human hand. CHAPTER V. I suppose I may have somehow betrayed my amazement and horror to my com- panion’s sharp eyes, for, suddenly, I felt his hand tightly grip my arm just above the elbow. I turned and found his face close by mine and his finger raised warn- ingly. Then I saw him produce his wrist grip and make a motion with his palm to- ward bis meuth, whch I understood to re- mind me of the gag. We stepped forward. The man turned his horrible cooking over and over abvve the crackling sticks, as though to smoke and dry it in every part. I saw Hewitt’s hand reach out toward him, and in a flash we had pulled him back over his heels and I had driven the gag between his teeth as he opened his mouth. We setiz- ed his wrists in the cords at once, and I shall never forget the man’s look of ghast- ly, frantic terror as he lay on the ground. When _I knew more I understood the rea- son cf this. Hewitt took both wrist holds in one hand and drove the gag entirely into the man’s mouth, so that he almost choked. A piece of sacking lay near the fire, and by Hew- itt’s request I dropped that awful hand from the wooden tongs upon it and rolled it up in a parcel-—-it was, no doubt, what the sacking had been brought for. Then we lifted the man to his feet and hurried him in the @irection of the cart. The whole capture could not have occupied thirty sec- onds, and, as I stumbled over the rough field at the man’s left elbow, I could only think of the thing as one thinks of a dream that one knows all the time is a dream. But presently the man, who had been walking quietly, though gasping, sniffing and chokiug because of the tightly rolled handkerchief in his mouth—presently he made a sudden dive, thinking, doubtless, to get his wrists free by surprise. I Had Driven the Gag Between His Teeth. Hewitt was alert, and gave his wrists a twist that made him roll his head with a dismal, stifled yell, and with the opening of his mouth, by some chance, the gag fell away. Immediately the man roared aloud for heip. “Quick,” said Hewitt, “drag him along— they’ll hear in the vans. Bring the hand!” I seized the fallen handkerchief and crammed it over the man's mouth as well as I might, and together we made as much ofa trot as we could, dragging the man be- tween us, while Hewitt checked any re- luctance on his part by a timely wrench of the wrist holds. It was a hard two hun- dred and fifty yards to the lane, even for us—for the gipsy it must have been a had minute and a half indeed. Once more as we went over the uneven ground he man- aged to get out a shout, and we thought we heard a distant reply from somewhere in the direction of the encampment. We pulled him over a stile in a tangle and dragged and pushed him through a small hedge gap in a heap. Here we were but But. twenty yards from the cart, and into that we flung him without wasting time or ten= derhess, to the intense consternation of the driver, who, 4 believe, very nearly set up a cry for help on his own account. Once in the cart, however, I seized the reins and the whip myself, and, leaving Hewitt to take care of tae prisoner, put the turnout along toward Ratherby at as near two miles an hour as it could go. We made first for Mr. Hardwick's, but he, we found, We Brought Our Prisoner Into the Colonel's Library. was with my uncle, so we followed him. The urrest of the Fosters had been effect- ed, we learned, not very long after we had left the wood, as they returned, by another route to Ranworth. We brought our prisoner into the colonel’s library, where he and Mr, Hardwick were sitting. * “I'm not quite sure what we can charge him with, unless it’s anatomical robbery,” Ba remarked, “but here’s the crim- nal. The man only looked down with a sulkily impenetrabie countenance. Hewitt spoke to him once or twice, and at last he said, in a strange accent, something that sound- ed like “Kekin jinaavoy.” “Keck jin?” (not understand) asked Hew- itt, in the loud, clear tone one instinctively = in talking to a foreigner, Keckeno The man understood and shook his head, but not ancther word would he say or an- other question answer. ., He's a foreign gipsy,” Hewitt explained, just as‘ thought—a Wallachian, in fact. Theirs is an older and purer dialect than that of the English gipsies, and only some of the root words are alike. But I think we can make him explain tomorrow that the Fosters, at least, had nothing to do with, at any rate, cutting off Sneathy’s hand. Here it is, I think,” and he gingerly lifted the folds cf sacking from-the ghastly object as it lay on the table, and then cov- = + ie “But what—what does it all mean?” Mr. Hardwick said, in bewildered astonis! ment. “Do you mean this man is an ac- complice “Not ai all—the ase was one of suicide, mie = ay vee —— T’ve explained. ply for the body han; and stole the hand A — “But what in the world for?” “For the Hand of Glory. Eh He turned to the gipsy and pointed to the hand on the table. “Yag-varst (fire hand), There was a quick gleam of intelligence in'the man’s eye, but he said nothing. As for myself, I was more than astounded. Could it be possible that the old supersti- tion of the Hand of Glory remained alive in a practical shape at this day?” “You know the superstition, of course?” Hewitt said. “It did exist in’ this country in the last century, when there were plenty of dead men hanging at cross roads, and so on. On the continent, in some places, it has survived later. Among the Wallachian gipsies it has always been a great article of belief, and the superstition is even said to be active still. The belief is that the right hand of a dead man, cut off and dried over the smoke of ‘certain Wood and herbs, and then provided with wicks at each finger made of the dead men’s hair, becomes, when lighted at each wick (he wicks are greased, of course,) a charm whereby a thief may walk-without hirdrance where he pleases in a strange house, push open all doors and take what he likes. Nobody can stop him, for every- kody the Hand of Glory’ approaches is made helpless, and can neither move nor speak. You may remember there was some talk of thieves’ candles in connection with = horsible series or Whitechapel murders rot long ago. iat is only one fol cult of the Hand of Glory.” shied “Yes,” my uncle said, “I remember read- ing so. There is a story about it in the ‘Ingolisby Legends,’ , I believe.” “There is—it is called ‘The Hand of Glory,’ in fact. You remember the spell: ‘Open lock to the dead man’s knock,’ and so on. But I think you'd better have the constable up and get this man into safe quarters for the night. He should be searched, of course. I expect they will find on him the hair I noticed to have been cut from Sneathy’s head.” The village constable arrived with his iron handcuffs in substitution for those of cord which had so sorely vexed the wrists of our prisoner, and marched him away to the little lockup on the green. CHAPTER VI. Then my uncle and Mr. Hardwick turned on Martin Hewitt with doubts and many questions. “Why do you call it suicide?” Mr. Hardwick asked. “It is plain the Fos- ters were with him at the time, from the tracks. Do you mean to say that ethey stood there and watched Sneathy hang himself without interfering?” - “No, I don’t,” Hewitt replied, lighting a cigar. “I think I told you that they never saw Sneathy.” “Yes, you did; and, of course, that’s what they said themselves when they were ar- rested. But the thing’s impossible. Look at the tracks!” * “The tracks are exactly what revealed to me that it was not iinpossible,” Hewitt re- turned. “I'll tell you how the case unfolded itself to me, from the beginning. As to the information you gathered from the Ran- worth coachman, to begin with, the con- versation between the Fosters which he overheard might well mean something less serious than murder. What did they say? They had been sent for in a hurry and had just had a short consultation with their mother and sister. Henry said that ‘the thing must be done, and at once;’ also, that as there were two of them 4t would be easy. Robert said that Henry, as a doctor, would know best what to do. Now you, Col. Brett, had been saying—before we learned these things from Mr. Hardwick— that Sneathy’s behavior of late had be- come sg bad as to seem that of a madman. Then there was the story of his sudden at- tack on a tradesman in the village and equally sudden running away—exactly the sort of impulsive, wild thing that madmen do. Why, then, might it not be reasonable to suppose that Sneathy had become mad—more especially con- sidering all the circumstances of the case, his commercial ruin and disgrace and his horrible life with his wife and her family? Had become suddenly much worse and quite uncontroilable, so that the two wretched women, left alone with him, were driven to send in haste for Henry and Robert to help them. That would account for all. The brothers arrive just after Sneathy had gone out. They are told in a hurried interview how affairs stand, and it is decided that Sneathy must be at once- secured and confined in an asylum before scmething serious happens. He has just gcne out—something terrible may be hap- pening at that moment. The brothers de- termine to follow together at once and secure him, wnerever he may be. Then the meaning of their conversation is plain, The thing that must be done, and done at once, is the capture of Sneathy and his confinement in an asylum. Henry, as @ doctor, would know what to do—in regard to the necessary formalities. And they took a halter in case a struggle should en- sue, and it were found necessary to bind him. Very likely, wasn’t it? “Well, yes,” Hardwick replied, “it certainly is. It never struck me in that light at all.” “That was because you believed to begin with that a murder had been committed and looked at the preliminary circum- stances, which you learned after, in the light of your conviction. But now to come, to my actual observations. I saw the foot- marks neross the fields and agreed with you (i was indeed obvious) that Sneathy had gone that way first and that the broth- ers had followed, walking over his tracks. This state@of the tracks continued until well into the wood, when suddenly tracks of the brothers opened out proceeded on each side of Sneathy simple Inference would seem to course, the one you made—that the had here overtaken Sneathy and one at each side of him, but of this no means certain. « ‘Another very simple explanatfbn available, which might chance to be true one. It was just at the spot the brothers’ tracks separated that path became suddenly much muddier, cause of the closer overhanging of trees at the spot. The path was, < to be expected, wettest in the midi would be the most natural thing tn world for two weil d young 0 arriving here to separate so as to walk ong where the be-