Evening Star Newspaper, March 21, 1896, Page 19

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, MARCH 21, 1896¢-TWENTY-FOUR PAGES. A SECRET “OF THE HEART gees BY HOWARD FIELDING. ———>_———_ (Copyright, 1896, by Bacheller, Johnson & Bacheller.) - PART I. MY ENEMY. : As I entered the Ann Street Bank build- ing some cne toucked me on the arm, and I turned to face George Stalbridge. I knew it was Stalbridge befcre I saw him, before I heard his voice. The creature had an at- mosphere such as is said to surround an evil spirit. If it had been consistent with my creed I should have crossed myself when I perceived him. My hatred of him had always been quité undisguised. I slcok off his hand roughly and would have walked away, but he de- tained me. There was a snaky fascination about the man which had long been in- cluded in my mental catalogue of his of- fenses. “You waik very fast,” he said. had hard work to overtake you.” “Let me know you're behind me next time,” said I, “if you're interested in my pedestrianism. Now, don’t detain me. I am going upstairs to see Mr. Davis, and I have no time to waste upon his evil gen- ius.” “Why do you speak so to me?” he asked, not at all in anger. “Come, let's have it out teday. What have you against me?" “Do you want me to go over all that again?’ I demanded. “Well, so be it. There is a new count in the indictment today, and I have « curiosity to hear how you will an- swer it. We still stood ir the main hall of the great building. It was 11 o'clock in the forenoon, a busy hour there, and scores of persons were passing In and out. “No,” said he, reading my thought; “it wont do to talk here. Let us go some- where else.” He put his hand upon my arm again, in a most friendly fashion, and led me toward the eet. ‘There was something to be gained by talk- ing with this man, and so I stifled my dfs gust of him. He had been for many years the close business associate of my uncle, Mr. Willard Davis, upon whom it had been my intention to call when I visited the bank building. “My uncle has read the papers this morn- T suppose,” said T. albridge brought his jaws together with ap. and grinned like a skull. They are rather hard upon us,” he said It is, perhaps. unfortunate that the nego- tlations between the Union surface Hnes and the Twenty-seventh Street Company have been divulged. The publi@never un- derstands such things.” “The public understands them perfectly,” I replied. angrily. “The public knows that the Union has got its grip upon the smaller mpany and has squeezed it to death; that every man who has put a dollar into the 27th street road will lose it—has lost it, in fact—and that the whole transaction is a mass of political bribery, commercial dis- honesty and evasion of law. I am not yet sure that the law has been successfully evaded; but whether it has or not, I certain- ly believe that if my uncle does not shake you off within a year he will overstep the mark an@ disgrace tne family name. Stal- bridge, you reptile, at is the secret of your influence over him?” “I have no influence.” he replied. “I am only his employe. You know very well that I am really no more than a confidential clerk.” “IT have I know the contrary,” said I. “Can you deny at this re road n= - was devised and executed by your- mu expect to be Tnion lines now, I said I, with a “I had thought,” he replied, wonld give that . Mr. Walter “that Mr. to his future Norman.” ke he started slightly. as one jenly notes some trivi oinci- derce. He almost stopped. heeled | about to face him, and observed that his eyes were dso that 1 d over my here was nothing particularly in- The elevated ve street at was rat- not the onplace a matter?" I demanded, ting of consequencs,” he replied. “I happened member somethi Let me Ser; what were we speaking of? or w just rui the moat mysterious part of understand how you pers to do this thing when Norma N d by t whom hav> ou cipal s' street com- pany, was sure to be terribly involved. Of one thing I am certain: Norman had no suspicion of the way things stood, as be- tween the two companies. He y upon his relations with ily to save him.y iss Davis’ fortune will be ample quite Stalbridge. “Her father arse, deal liberally with her when she marries, And besides, as I have alrcady said, I think it is his intention to fix Norman all right when the consolidated stock is issued. I repeat that I expect to see him president of the Union.” “That is an absurd falsehoo,” I retcrted. ou are trying to drive him to despera- tion That you may break off the match. If it were conceivable that she would ac- cept you, I should be fat you had de- signs upon my cousin’s hand She is a charming woman,” bridge, calml I was anxious to break off the conyersa- ‘ My object in talking with Stalbridge aly been attained. It was, then, time for me to go upo: lon that had brought me down tor h was to see iy uncle and pi cause. I turned abo ly and began to the Ann Street Bank by my side. I We entered the le door, which i3 no elevator in said Stal- as on the third floor Union lines had gorgeous y uncle's room was no name on the hidden door. ige had even the harmless, necessar: being banished knocked. That was his in- variable custom, and it gave me a bad im- Pression of the room, as a place whe: cret mectings were held—meectings of two where ucither dared permit a witness to be was no answer to Stalbridge's - is must have gone ou! ‘Will you wait for him?” he said. “What's the mattert sharply. 1 demanded, He drew out nis key anid tried to put it into the lock, but it met an obstacie. “There’s a key on the Inside,” he whis- pered. “He must be there, after all." At that moment I heard something fall with a faint ring on the carpet within, and following that sound there came a low, scb- bing cry. and then a crash. Stalbridge, who, because of his strange stature, was bending over the tock, sud- denly straightened up, and ‘turned almost around. He leaned against the door. I had never seen a live man's face look as his looked then. The hound was thoroughly frightened. I seized the key out of his hand; unlocked the door, and flung it open. As I did <0, a door upon the other side of the roora closed with a snap. This I perceived mechani Jy, for my gaze was riveied upon my ‘He was on his knees beside his ‘Ie- face turned toward me. One hand clutched the desk for support; the other was press- ed_upon his breast. as lay. me—I could read “it in bert CS le tried to speak, but ly an then fell forward on his - ace Death proclaimed himself in that heavy fall. Even the manner of it was evident, at least to my eye, which is. not wholly un- trained. = I knew that my uncle had died of a wound from a sharp-pointed weapon. Instantly I knelt by his side and turned him upon his | back. The rush of blood was dreadful. 1t came straight from the heart. 2 All the world could not help him. My thought flashed to the murderer, and I re- membered the closing of that door on the instant of our entrance. I sprang toward it, beat it down and rushed into the little room beyond. < It was entirely empty. There was no other door but that by which I had entered. Tran to an open window and looked down a sheer wall to a paved court. ~. Mystified, I turned back to the large room where Stalbridge stood staring down upon the corpse of his benefactor. PART II. AN ORDINARY, EVER TIVE. Self-satisfaction was the only strong emo- tion that I had ever seen in Stalbridge’s face up to that moment. That expression I had learned to recognize, and I could even draw safe inf2rences from the degree of its man- ifestation. But it was a new face that he wore as he stood beside the body of Willard Davis. I could not read it. Yet, if I had been compelled to do my best I should have sald that he was tortured by a despairing -DAY DETEC- He Knew Me—I Could Read It in His Eyes. sorrow, wholly selfish, absolutely unmixed with any human sympathy jor the man whose awful end we had both witnessed. j _*~ boy in the janitor’s employ look- jed into the room, and gt the sight of the corpse fled in terror. I cried out after him that the police must be sum- moned: that Mr. Davis had been mur- dered, and that the assassin had escaped by the window Within a few minutes a policeman arrived und took my place at the deor, repeating the order I had given to keep every one out of the reom, and backing it up by the dis- play of nis authority. There was only one person in the crowd that made any trouble. He was a tall, dark-visaged fellow, whose appearance, a$ well as his voice, suggested Italy as his native land. I could not fully understand what he was . but it seemed to con- tain an intimation that the fate which had overtaken my uncle was just. I thought the man a crank with anarchistic tenden- cies, and paid no further attention to him. obody was admitted but the ambulance surgeon, who had been summoned, and Vice President Rodney of the Union lines, who wes too important a person to be exciuded. talbridge, meanwhile, had remained anding like 2 statue beside my uncle's @ead body down at it. He did not move Ww! mbulanee surgeon knelt to make bis examination. It was quickly done, and he disturbed aS litile es possible the position of the corpse. “There are two wounds here,” he said, in response to my questions. “One is upon the right side of the head. Tt was mate by a glancing biow from some heavy instru- | ment having an edge, but not sharp like a knife. The blow may have stunned him, but it would not have killed him. The sec- ond wound was a stab with a small, round and sharp-pointed instrument, like a stilet- | to. It entered the right breast between the venth and eighth ribs, and seems to hay | penetrated the heart. It must have cau: | almost instant death. “Yet he was alive when we entered,’ cried in horror, glancing at Stalbridge. “We had the murderer under our very hands and we let him escape.” Stalbridse answered with a groan. I looked at him, but he did not meet my eyes; he was still staring at the corpse. The thought came to me that if this man had net stopped me in the hall, I should have been with my uncle and could have saved him. Unreasonable as it was, I re- proached him for waat he had done. “Fate, fate!” he mutt still without looking at me. “Who could have dreamed of this?” My uncle's family, I thought, should be “informed at once, and the pain- ful task was surely mine. I spoke of chis to Rodney, and he said that I should go at once. I shuddered when I pictured’ the grief of my aunt and my cousin Emily, who has been already meationed as the betrothed of Walter Norman. There was a son, too, who must be summoned from col- lege by this terrible news. As I was about to leave the room, the | detective from police headquarters arrived. The detective was in appearance the most absolutely commonplace man that I had ever seen. Perhaps I was expecting the de- tective of romance, and thus derived an jed impression of the ordinary from this iran, Johnson.® He was about the medium height, and his face was of so conventional | 4 type that I began to wonder vaguely | Whether I had seen him before. His expres- | sion was somewhat vacant, but not with the vacancy of stupidity, rather with the listlessness of a man who has-nothing to do and very little to think about. He was €ressed in the sort of clothes that one will ed He mest of, if he walks about the city all day. “Excuse me,” he-said, palitely. “If you're rot really in a hurry, I'd like to ask a few questions before you go.” He asked but very few indifferent to my answers. Indeed, his indif- ference piqued me, and I was the more care- ful to tell my story accurately and to bring cut ali the pofnts. I succeeded in arousing a certain amount of interest when I told him of the closing door, and of my pursuit of the murderer; but he ceased to pay attention to me when I said that I had failed to get a glimpse of the escaping criminal. I and seemed almost languldly, displaying a large number of keys on a ring. “My uncle’s,” I exclaimed. “Where did you get them “TI picked them up,” he said, pointing to the ficor near the door which led to the hall. “The murderer must have taken them from my uncle’s pocket and locked the door immediately after the commission of the crime,” I said. “We found it locked. said 1 ! “That was the way of it, of course, | “There are bloodstains on the Johnson, doer and the casing, as you have doubtless observed.” I had not seen them, but when Johnson pointed them out they were obviou: “He washed his hands afterward,” John- son continued. “There is the towel on He pointed at the towel in question, which -was thrown over the corner of a looking glass that hung upon the wall. | “Why did he throw it up there?” I mut- i i | which he wiped them.” ! i ! tered, half to myself. “Tt noi thrown,” said Johnson. “You can see that. It was gung up there. ; The top of the looking glass, which 1 vas a very large one, was nearly eight feet from the floor. “He must have been a giant,” FE ex- claimed, “to reach so high.” ‘A tall man, probably,” said Johnson. “Has anybody meddied with the towel, the rack under it, the bowl, or anything else hereahou ian has been disturbed,” said Stal- se. ‘ ‘No blood here,” he said; “this water is perfectly clean.” He pointed into the bowl, where there was a little water. On jooking more closely than Johrson had done, I was able to discover a few spots of blood at the up- uer ede of the bowl where the horizontal slab was set ver it, When Johnson’s at- tention was called to them he scanned them closely. I had begun to feel considerable respect for the detective’s ability. The pee way in which he had possessed himself of the keys without attracting anybody's attention had excited my curiosity, and had led me to be- Keve that there was more in him than ap- peared upon the surface. But when I had demonstrated the superiority of my own observation over his, I began to hold him cheap. If I had been the criminal I should have feared Stalbridge far more. His acuteness was well known, and his appe- tite for revenge equaled that of a savage. He had suffered deeply by my uncle's death, and he would never rest, I felt as- sured, until he had seen the author of that injury in the hands of the executioner. “Have you formed any theory of the crime?” I asked Stalbridge. He did not answer. “What do you think about it?” the detec- tive asked of me. “I am puzzled by one circumstance,” said J. “The surgeon tells me that my uncle was stabbed to the heart. Yet he was alive when we entered. Therefore, the murder ‘aust have been committed within a very few seconds. Indeed, I believe that I heard my uncle cry when the blow was struck. Hew, then, could the murderer have wash- ed the blood from his hands? We entered at once. “That's just the point that bothered me at first,” said Johnson, “but it’s clear enough now. The wound in the head was inflicted first. It was the blood from that wound which stained the murderer’s hands. He washed them, and probably he was on the point of leaving the room- when you came, and blocked his escape. At the same moment, your uncle, who had been lying unconscicus and was supposed by the crim- iral to be dead, regained his senses. He staggered to his feet. The criminal, as he fled across the room to reach the other where the window is, was confronted by his victim. Then he struck the second and fatal blow, and escaped as Mr. Davis fell dying. How does that sirike you, gentle- Ten?” He looked at us with frank inquiry. There was nothing of the typical air of mystery about him. His method, as any cne could see, was to ask questions, and Fut the facts together, taking all the help he could get. I regarded his theory as very strohg, and my confidence in him was restored. “But the motive?” said I. “It was undoubtedly robbery,” said the éetective. “You will observe that there 1s tlocd upon these papers on the desk. It will be found on examination that one which should be there is missing. Then we shall have a real clew to the mur- derer.” Stalbridge sprang toward the desk. He hurriedly scanned the papers. you are right,” he said. paper missing; and its di be very convenient for the 2 road people.” He turned to me with a gleam of intelli- gent triumph in his eyes, and then pointed he towel over the corner of the glass. Your friend Norman is a very tall man,” “There ts a ppearance will h street rail- PART II. MR. STALBRIDGE IS AMUSED, AND STARTLED. “Your friend, Mr. Stalbridge, is a wonder- ful man.” So sald Detective Johnson to me on the evening of the day of the murder. I was too deeply interested in learning what Stalbridge had done to think of pro- testing against his being called my friend. After leaving the scene of the crime for the purpose of conveying the dreadful news to my aunt and my cousin, I had known scarcely anything of the progress of the case. The detective had promised to report to me at my uncle’s house, and I had been impatiently awaiting his coming. It w. about 8 o'clock when he was shown into the drawing room and he responded to my eager question with praise of Stalbridge. “What has he cone?” I demanded. “Has he found the murderer™’ “I Picked Them Up. ing to th ' he said, point- floor. ‘ot yet,” replied the detective, “but he is working down to him rapidly. That-man bas more than the irstinct of a bloodhound. The hound must inunt for the trail, but Mr. Stalbridge knows where the trail is without, Funting for it. “I should view such knowledge with sus- picion,” sald I. “Oh, come now,” retcrted Johnson, good- *, “you are doing your friend an injustice. To say nothing of his character, it is Impossible to suspect him of any par- ticipation in this crime. Certainly nobody eculd suffer more ti:an he does by the death of Mr. Davis.” ir. Norman is here, T suppose?” ‘No, he is not here. We have been un- to find him.” ‘I had the esame luck,” said Johnson, some slight token of interest appearing in his mechanically expressionless voice. “I called at his rooms twice.” “What for?” I demanded. “| hardly krew what for the first time,” he replied; “‘but the second time I was after | this.” He showed me a stiletto with a jeweled handle. I knew it well, having secn it of- ten in Norman's rooms, where there was a rubbishy lot of quaint weapons, with a few that were interesting and valuable. “Johnson,” said I, “if you let Stalbridge induce you to drag Norman into this case you'll make an awful mistake.” “Mr. Stulbridge doesn’t urge it,” he re- plied. “I think he suspects somebody else. But I can’t overiook Norman altogether. You see, this railroad business brings him into the case, and if I don’t hunt him up the rewspapers will jump on me. That's what we're all afraid of, you _know—the newspapers. Now, if you think I am like! to get jun ped on worse for arresting Nor- man than for letting him alone, why I'll act accordingly. I haven't any feeling in the matter; and as for knowing who killed Mr. Davis or having any suspicion of it, my mind {s as empty as a box full of nothing.” “Hasn't anything been done except this foolish business about Norman?” I asked impatiently. “Oh, yes" there’s the examination by the coroner's physician. I haven't the written report, but I can give you the substance of it. Your opirion regarding the stab wound was correct. It pierced the heart. Death must have been almost instantaneous. That proves my theory that the fatal blow was struck while you stood outside the door. Ah, good evening, Mr. Stalbridge.” I turned just as the gaunt, high-shoul- dered figure stalked into the room. Stalbridge, usually so excessively cour- teous, gave no greeting to either of us. He looked like a man with one idea—ven- geance, “Have you done anything with the frag- ments of that document?” he demanded of the detective. Mrs. Johnson has them, sir,’ he replied. “She is far cleverer than any man at that sort of work.” “What is this document?” I asked, “I was just going to tell you about it when Mr. Stalbridge came in.” said John- goh. “You know my theory of the crime. Mr. ‘Davis was struck down, and then the murderer removed a paper from the desk. The blood stains on the remaining papers prove this conclusively, to my mind. I confess that I had little hope of ever find- ing that document, but I now believe that we have it in hand.” “Where did you find it?” “Wait a°moment. Not so fast. You know how the murderer escaped. By a desperate exercise of agility, aided evidently by the ratural advantage of height, he climbed from a window of your uncle’s rear room into an unoccupied suite which also had a tear window on the court. “Naturally, I suggested sn examination of those apartments to see whether he had left any clew behind him. Mr. Stalbridge joined me in the search. It was fruitless at first, except that we found all the doors unlocked, showing that the murderer could have had unimpeded passage through the rooms. “After a careful examination, I was on the point of sperdosine that field, but Mr. Stalbridge infisted that there must be something to reward our endeavors. And so there was, for, on the final search, I found ten thousand tiny bits of paper in a cupboard under a setbowl in one of the ms. Too! “I might not have recognized the im- portance of this discovery but for Mr. this. ‘It was to be expected. We ought to have known for a certainty that these scraps of paper were here. He had com- eaitted murder to secure ae come dared not go out upon, stree! his pocket for fear ‘Btuarcest: If he bad been taken with this upon him, what could have saved him? oy... “I was inclined to ‘be skeptical, but an examination of the bits of paper showed me that they once formed part of a legal document. Besides, it}was easy to sce that they had not been Yieny hours in that place. Moreover, care had been taken to tear the paper into fragments of nearly equal size, so as to prevent any person from putting them tpggther properly.” “It can be done,” sald Stalbridge, “and I will stake my life that the document proves to be the contract whith delivered the 27th street road into our hands. Moreover, Mr. Davis,” he continued, addressing me direct- ly, “I have to inform you that your friend Norman has disappeared.” “You lie, Stalbridge,”’ said a deep, intense voice. “I am here to defend myself.” Norman strode into the room. He was almost a giant in stature, and the strength of his facial outline matched the tremendous energy of his form. His cheeks and even his. forehead were flushed with anger. I knew that he had heard of the suspicion that had been directed toward him, the at- tempts to find him and the search of his apartments, and that he attributed the in- Jury rightly to Stalbridge. Knowing Norman’s high temper, I was afraid that he might do an act of violence which he would regret ali his life. I hastily placed myself between them, and just then Johnson said, in his most lifeless tone: r “Mr. Norman, I had the pleasure of call- ing upon you this afternoon when you wero not-at home, and I took several things out of your room.” eur fri man.” The giant uttered a sound like the growl ing of a tiger, and instantly turned upon the detective. cted to see Johnson innihilateds but he skilifully retreated from the peril which he had so recklessly invoked. He backed throuzh a doorway into t music room and Norman followed. What happened in that room afterward I am unable to state, but there was no vio- ience. Probably Norman found it imposst- ble to be angry with such an automaton as Johnson, There was a great deal in my mind, in that moment when I found myself alone I saw with Staibridge in him the most dangerous per: that alone L would’ have opposed him in every possible manner. But I hated , besides, and to fight against him was a pleasure = “Stalbi said J, “you krow*Norman to be innocent.” “I know nothing of tHe kind,” he retort- ed angr ‘ou don’t know what you are talking about.” Wait a bit,” 1 rejoined. “Let me tell you When we were walking sireet this morning, you men- tioned Norman's rame, ana at that mo- ment yeu chaaced to look vp. ¥ou s cy on uu, and noticed a p your face. I then too apen another matter to un oak, ut na cbes been expre deeply in intent Ss me ever sitt Norman in ¢ that moment, ca h passed us at the ciden of seeing him Just us his name was on your lips which startled you.” talbrhige glanced. toward thd! mus room. Johnson jhail closed the door. A look-of amisement overspread my ad- 5 %$ countenance, Such a look may mod the circie of the fiends when the red li w face, kes into an “This fs u he s: ina to prove an alibi ny.” You expe er Norman by u do not deny w “My dear fellow, is you expect my conduct to be affected. by e circumstances of my secing or not s ing Mr. Norman at the time you mention? you had seon him, that would have been t matter.” 0 tell me,” T demanded, tricken, “that you will let him be condemned for this crime when a word from you :an save him?" “Tm not that he could be saved in the way 30 “You lie,” Stalbridse; defend mysc! to “Suppose that he was on that train; he might have gotten off at Park place and have reached the Ann street building ahead of us. “You stultify yourself,” I cried. member that there was a blow struc fore the fatal thrust with the dagger, the criminal locked the door, washed his hands; that he stole a paper from the desk. Could all this have been in the time =hat Norman would have had, by your supposition?” “Pefhaps not,” said Stalbridge, grinning. “I can see that we are wasting. words, said I. “Whatever may,be the value of the evidence you could give.in his favor, you will not give it.” |, Your intellect ig’ unusually clear this evening,” he said. /!Stil there is a possi: bility that some one olse.in the @ain may have recognized him.” there Is a much; greater possibility the other way,” I rejoined. | “But I am going to remove this matter ,put of the region of possibilities, “How, may T ask??. o “By compelling you, to tell the truth—a thing that T never heped to see.” “Compel is a very forribie word, What is your backing for.it?” “Let me meet that question with an- other. Where were, you when my uncle was murdered rane Stalbridg> smiled. : was enjoying the qharm of your so- a pleasure that is, too often denied me,” he said. 1 ‘How are you going ta prove it?’ I de- manded. My question struck him as if it had been a ched fist. He started back. Then his brow darkened. He suddenly drew himself up, and his lean hands became ike claws. He was about to utter a threat, but somehow it seemed to stick in his’ throat. “Re- PART Iv. THE SMALL STOCKHOLDER. ‘You begin to- see the drift of my argu- ment,” said I. “We met not a soul who knew us on our little walk. We entered by the side door. There chanced to be no one on the stairs. Then, Stalbridge, if I keep my mcuth shut, where is your alibi? If I denounce you; if I say that you were there by the door when I came, what would be your position? I have mentioned to no one that I had been with you before. And, by the eternal heavens, if you withhold your evidence in favor of lorman, I will keep back mine tn your fa’ Ne vor.” “You will not dare to do it?” “Stalbridge, you don’t believe that your- self. You know me too well. I have a bacx- bone under my coat. I'll stand by what I have said, and let me add another subject for your consideration: If there is going to be an evidence factory running in this case, as in so many others, I'll try to get into the business. You go ahead and make evidence against Norman, and I'll mark you with blood from head to foot.” At that moment Norman and the detective came out of the music room. “Stalbridge,” said Norman, “I have been persuaded that I have done you an injustice. Thig officer tells me that the suspicions against me were not instigated by you.” “I think that must be true,” said I, shame- lessly. “Mr. Stalbridge could not have per- mitted sueh a suspicion to gain headway, if he had known it, for he is perfectly well aware that you were not in the building when the deed was done. “Thank God for that,” returned Norman, devoutly. “It has been imposstble for me to prove my whereabouts at that time. As a matter of fact, I was riding up town in the €th avenue elevated railroad, but I met no one who knew me. I was aware that Mr. Stal- bridge knew that I had left Mr. Davis’ office nearly an hour before the crime, but I had no idea that he had seen me afterward.” “He saw you on the train as it passed Vesey street,” said I. “That is the fact, I believe?” I turned to Stalbridge. “Yes,” he said, in a surly tone. “I admit, however, that it did not then occur to me that your being in that place at that time constituted an alibi.” “You did not mention having seen Mi Norman in Mr. Davis’ office this morning, said Johnson. “I didn’t see him,” growled Stalbridge. “Tell the truth,” I muttered, p: hind him, “or you will know what “He was in the back room,” said Norman. “Mr. Davis told me so, in a whisper, warning me that every word I said could be heard by im.” Stalbridge exchanged a glance with me. Then he sata: “It is true that I was there, though I did not wish the fact to be known—for business reasons, which, of course, can have no connection with this sad affair. I trust that all of you will regard what I say as confidential. I remained there, Mr. Norman, until after you left, and then I immediately went out. A few minutes later, while passing along Broadway, I saw Mr. Davis,” indicating myself, “and fol- lowed him to the bank building.” “From which time,” said I, fulfilling my agreement, “Mr. Stalbridge was wit ne every minute until I left the scene of the tragedy to come here. “Weill, the air is considerably clearer,” remarked Detective Johnson. “I think we shall get along a good deal faster, now, on track of the criminal. Mr. Davis, about what time was it when you and Mr. Stal- bridge met at the bank building?” “About 11 o'clock; 1 don’t know exactly,” I replied. ‘Were you near the main entrance?” “Yes; we were in the hall.” “I suppose you didn’t happen to see any- body in particular,” he said, in his dullest tone; “for instance, anybody who was af- terward conspicuous on tne scene of the crime?” It flashed across my n:ind suddenly that I had seen the tall Italian enter the*build- ing—the, same who had subsequently made some stir before the docr of my unele’s office. Lineni oped the fact tr son's question and desy saw tha he was pleased. “Who is the fellow?" I demanded. “A smail stockholder ‘n the 27th strect was the reply. $96n22 to John- tua stolidity 1 Docerway ‘ot Antonelli ntonio Antonelli,”’ re; ; a note book. and a few teresting man e have his a Ss in his hi It was ime had exti and De together been comr d. ordinary liking for the fello’ a frankness in his manne refreshing, as a contrast t pected to find, considering his propo It seems strange that I did not su: Antonelli in the first place,” said I. was an Italian’s weapon that was «sed, and I might have guessed by his conduct that he was one of the victims of the rail- is less than a thousand dollars, replied Johnson; “but that makes no diffe ence. It is mall loser who is the bi terest, ence teaches me.” Has arrested?” I asked. y some one rapped up- Je yn adm da uniformed eman, who merely said “all right,” and went out. It must have been an im- portant message, for it worked a wondrous change in the det He at once drop- ped his frankness and candor and became the detective of Fomance. From this vn- favorabie transformati rgued that the message should have been “all wrong.” I asked. “You'll know pre: he sald. ‘al of silence. John- ing the contents of the his cane. The torn document. eeded in patching There was a son was moodily stir waste paper basket with ion reminded me of “Mrs, Johnson?” he echoed, with an air of perplexity. “Yes! You said you had given it to her.” “There isn't any Mrs. Johnson,” said he. “I never was married. “Then who has the fragmeats of that document? “They're in an envelope in my .pocket,” he replied. ‘and they've been there from the first. Nobody need have any anxlety about them. All the men and women in the world couldn’t patch them together in ten thou: and years. But that doesn’t make any di ference. The document was a ‘fake,’ an: ho “You mean that it was put there so that you might find it?” “Precisely. I had already searched the “Pll mark you with blood from head to foot.” unoccupied suite adjoining this one thor- oughly, and the torn paper was’t there. Then, at Vice President Rodney's sugges- tion, I searched again, and—” “I thought it was Stalbridge Who insti- tuted that search. You said so.” “Did I?” asked the detective, innocently. “How could I have made such a mistake? As a matter of fact, it was the vice pr dent. But Stalbridge made the search with me. Of course we found the scraps.” “Then the murderer didn’t tear up that Gocument?” “I don’t know whether he did or not.” yout Instead of speaking right out as you out as and, {2, 6% you're trying to tangle the case .“‘No, I’m not. I repeat that I don’t know whether the murderer tore up that paper or not. Stalbridge might have done it.” “I think it quite probable. He was try- ing to hold case against Norman.” “Undo and he wished me to be- lleve that the bits of paper were the re- mains of the railway contract, but th weren’t.~ That document was burned.” {Surned!” oe but a little piece of it. Would you like He took from a card case an irregular bit of paper about three inches long, and tapering. from an inch in width to a point. It seemed to have been the lower left-hand corner of @ sheet. The irregular upper edge was charred. The scraps had evi- deatly been slightly wetted, and it also ap- eed to oS stained with blood. was a round hole ugh ae of it. < a = “2 und that in the escape pipe of the bowl,” Johnson, pointing Toward the place where the murderer had washed his hands. “It had been rolled up and thrust into the pipe, but had caught in such a way as to escape being washed down. I examined the pipe on general principles and found it The few words that appear upon it are a sufficient identification. But what do you think of the hole? How was it made? What stained the paper red?" : eS eee suggested itself to me. anxiously into Johnson’s face. Hi nodded, with a grim expression. % PART V. A QUESTION OF TIME. “This bit of paper was caught upon the weapon that pierced your uncle's heart,” he said. “I nave that ‘weapon here.” “Not Norman's stiletto!” I cried, remem- bering that he had taken it. “There was no stiletto in the case,” he said. “The weapon was a peaceable imple- ment suddenly perverted to a deadly use. There it stands.” He indicated an ordinary spindle on which documents are spiked. It was simply a bit of steel wire about five inches long, mounted upon a metal standard, and sharply pointed at the end. “It was all done in a moment of pas- sion,” said the detective. “Your uncle held that fatal contract in his hands. It was burning. The spectacle and your uncle's words at the moment must have maddened the murderer. He siruck suddenly and surely with the first thing that came to his hand. Willard Davis fell mortally hurt. As he fell his head struck the corner of his desk a violent blow. Thus doubly wounded, he lay upon the floor. The murderer bent over him and slowly, fearfully, withdrew the weapon. “Why did he do that?” “Because that bit of paper was pinned down upon the victim's heart. The mur- derce dared not leave it there. He secured it at the ¢ost of wetting his hands with blood. The paper was soaked. It would not burn. Distracted with fear, the mur- de-er rolled the paper in his hands and thrust it down the escape pipe, where, for- tunately for me, it lodged. Then the crim- inal washed his hands, dried them on that towel, and walked out of that door.” “What are you telling me?” I exclaimed. “This is all new. What has become of the theory which you explained to me with such care—my uncle struck down, the door locked with his keys, the paper taken, the fatal thrust given at last because the vic- d while Stalbridge and I were at “Up to the time when I was ten years old,” replied Johnson, “I was a very truth- ful boy. Then I happened to notice that lying Was not directly prohibited in the commandments. Since then I have made it a point never to tell the truth unless there is a very pressing need of it. Thus I have risen in my profession— “But why was it necessary to lie to me?” I demanded. “Let me shew you why,” he said, earn- ; “and new you're going to get the ex- aet facts. The great point of this case is that Mr. Davis I'ved nearly half an hour with a hole in his heart. There was where you went astray. You took my hogus med- t on top of the natural error of eved that instantly killed. re popularly sup- fatal, but that your uncle had been Wounds In the he posed to be imme not true. There are many cases——" “I know all about them,” I broke in, im- patiently. “But you ferget that whon I entered the place I saw that door, leading to the rear room, lose: and that it was lecked when I reached it. The murderer was just escaping; my uncle was breathing his last. Then, by your sure of time, the azsa’ had remained with his victim nearly half an hour. Is that credible? ‘It is not,” replied the detective. “But T can solve your diificuity. In the first place let me show you how I measured the time It is rather prett He led me to the bowl beneath the glass, and called my attention to the fact that there was a small leak from the fau- cet. He asked me to observe the steadiness of it, and then attempted to place the fau- cet in such a position that there would be a different rate of leakage. I found that the thing could not be done. The faucet worked by a law of its own, and wherever “There isn’t any Mrs. Johnson.” piaced, it would spring at once to the posi- tion it seemed to prefer “Just after the crime,” said Johnson, “when you and I bent over this bowl, look- ing for bloodstains, I noticed that leak. Instantly I marked the level of the waier in the bowl. Afterward I experimented ard found that the time required for the bowl to be filled to that point was fifty-one minutes. Take twenty-five minutes off for the time between the discovery of the crime —coincident with your uncle's death—and my marking of the bowl That leaves twenty-six minutes. Now add four min- utes for the time taken by the murderer in washing his hands. That makes just half an hour that your uncle lived.” “This is guess work,” said I. “How do you know that the murderer left no water in the bowl?” “Because, my deas sir, the last thing he did was to push down this bit of paper, and he wouldn't have done that while there was water In the bowl. He didn’t let any run afterward, otherwise the paper would have been soaked. Tie pushed it in, sup- besing that it would fall down the pipe. Then he repiaced the stopper—or it fell into place—and my timepiece was in opera- tion. w as to the closing of that door. Watch this little experiment. I open the door thus. Now, will you oblige me by opening the main door suddenly. Thanks. You perceive the draught of air shuts this ore. It fastens itself. I've replaced the lock you broke, and everything is as it was. So we've disposed of your delusion that you were right on the heels of the murderer.” I was considerably perplexed by this sud- den change of theory. It was hard to es- cape the detective’s reasoning in regard to the time of the commission of the crime, yet there were several points that needed explanation. For instance, how could the door have been locked on the inside with my uncle's keys? I heard them drop out of the lock. Who had put them into it? “It was Mr. Davis himself,” said John- son, when I put the question to him; “he was trying to get out. Doubtless he was feebly crying for help, but no one heard. ‘Those marks of hands upon the door were his. The position shows that they were made by some one who was supporting himself with difficuity. “He could not open the door, and for a very good reason. Dazed and dying, he had selected the wrong bunch of keys. I got the right one out of his pocket, and the | key of that door was on it. “By heaven, Mack, you've lost him!” If he had anything to say, why didn’t he bring you up here? Or take you into one of the rooms of the Union lines? It was fair to guess that he wanted to keep you out of the way. “At last you forced him back to the scene of his crime. What must have been his surprise and horror at finding that his vic- tim still lived! But soon he saw that it was to be his own salvation. “The closing door, the wound in the heart—everything seemed to indicate that the crime was but just done. Then he could prove an alibi through you. “Insiantly the desire to convict Nor- man seized upon him. He was Norman's rival for Miss Davis’ hand, and had work- ed in that cause as well as for money in getting your uncle into his power. it was in my favor that he should plot to convict Norman, for he was more, likely to be led into an indiscretion. And the surest way to keep him at it was to satisfy himself of his own safety—to make him over-conti- dent. For that reason I worked upon you. He would not have believed me, but he put faith in what came to him through you. He knew you to be his bitter enemy, and nothing could sustain him so much as your coniidence in his innocence. ‘Meanwhile I had Norman more or less under suspicion. I knew that he had becn here, though I was not aware that Stal- bridge was present at the same time. You forced that out of Stalbridge and also the very valuable and singular alibi for Nor- man.” “How about the Italian?” “He was saved by my water ciock. He could account for himself up to the time when he entered this building, and that time was absolutely known. It was three minutes before eleven. The crime was com- mitted five minutes earlier. Judge, then, of my satisfaction when you remembered seeing Antonelli. Stelbridge was with you at that time. He had just appeared. Me had time to leave the scene of the crime, to leave the building by the side door, to see you approaching, and to stop you in order that you might not find the body. ‘To Stalbridge, then, all clews lead. He will be here presently and you shall see how he faces the accusation.” “Is he under arrest? No; but he ts shadowed. He will be ar- ed if he does not keep the appointment hich he has with me here. He is over- 1e. Johnson glanced at his watch and then stepped to the door: I saw him start. His face suddenly flushed. cried. man in rather shabby dress stepped quickly to the door. “Where's Stalbridge?” he gasped, as he glanced into the room. hasn't been here, “By heavens, Mac “Not 01 “He John- him! lie did not come in. The man has es- caped. He got onto you and took the alarm.” Mack, the shadow, struck his forehead with his right hand. “Is it possible that he got in there?” he said, and then he pointed to the door of the vacant suite. “If he did, he hasn't had any chance to get out.” Johns’ and I rushed into the rooms They wer? empty. The window opening into the shaf: was op y all the sa! 4 exclaimed the de- tective. “The fellow climbed into th back room and has heard all I have said.” We ran back and passed into the rear room, leaving the shadow on guard in the hall. 'Stalbridge was not there, but we were not long in finding evidence of his presence. On the wall beside the door some words were scrawled in pencil. They had evidently been written while the mur- derer stood there listening. “Thank you for these disclosures, Mr. Johnson. Your views are surprisingly ac- curate, I would like to remain and point out some of your errors, but time presses, and certain considerations urge my imme- diate departure. I fear we shall not mect again, as it is improbable that I shall ever return to New York. If it were not for the essing noise of firearms, I would open door and shoot you both where you si These words had cavght Johnson's eye on his first glance around the little room. He read them alo iened to the window. infernal rascal has got away,” said the detectiv “but he will be caught. It may be a long chas>, though, for he will take a barrel of mo ith him, As he spoke I measured with eye the distance between the two windows. It was a hazardous feat to pass from one to the other. I glanced into the shaft to measur¢ the distance one would fall. I iooked straight down inte George Stal- bridge’s face. He had fallen in passing from one window to the other, and he lay in the bottom of the shaft, mortally hurt. His fall had beea heard, though not by us. Before we could get down the stairs he had been taken out of the shaft. He lived about half an hour, and was con- scious most of the time. Knowing that he was fatally injured, he had no hesitation in speaking of the crime. His story coincided perfectly with John- son's theory. Willard Davis had yielded to Norman's pleas for fairer treatment in the railway transaction. Stalbridge, in the back room, had heard all. When Norman had gone Stalbridge en- tered, and there was a brief and angry dis- cussion, which ended in my uncle's touch- i meanwhile had a On the Wall Beside the Door Some Words Were Scrawled, irg a match to the railway contract. As it blazed up, so Stalbridge’s anger blazed. The fatal blow caMe speedily. All else tho reader knows. - (The end.) —_>— Im the Modern Fiat. From Puck. Prospective Tenant (dubiously)—“Wen, I'd take the place. It has modern improve- ments, and so forth, as you say; but I don’t lke that ugly crack in the wall over there. Janitor (hastily)—“Crack, sir? Why, that’s the private hall.