WHAT A HANDKERCHIEF REVEALED.
Dyke Darrel was so dazed from the blow he had received as to be unable
to ward off the dirk that was thrust at his bosom by the vile
assassin, and had not a third party appeared on the scene at this
critical moment the story we are now writing would never have been
told.
A kind Providence had on more than one occasion favored the daring
railroad detective.
Before the point of the knife touched the breast of Dyke Darrel, a
swift-flying object sent the deadly weapon out into the middle of the
street.
The next instant a man bounded from the shadow of a building upon the
would-be assassin. There was a short struggle, when the last comer
found, that instead of the detective's assailant, he held a coat in
his hands.
The villain had made good his escape.
"Confound you!" greeted the new comer.
"Who was it?"
"I saw him following you, sir, and made up my mind that some villainy
was in the wind. I do not know who the villain was. Are you hurt?"
"Not in the least."
Then the two men walked on until a lamp-post was gained. Here the
features of each were plainly revealed.
A low exclamation fell from the lips of Dyke Darrel.
"Good thunder, Harry Bernard! how are you? Where in the world did you
spring from?"
The detective grasped and wrung the man's hand warmly--a rather
slender young fellow, with brown hair and eyes, a mustache being the
only sign of beard on his face.
"One question at a time, Dyke," returned the young man with a laugh.
"I mistrusted it was you all the time. It strikes me that you are
becoming careless in your old age. Hope you're not in love--THAT makes
a fool of a man sometimes?"
"Does it? No, I'm not in any such predicament; fact is, I am wedded to
my profession and shall never marry. But, Harry, you haven't answered
my questions yet."
"You asked me how I get on; I can answer that by saying that I was
never better in my life. I have been across the plains, among cowboys
and Indians, and it's given me strong muscles and good health. I
arrived in St. Louis this morning. It was the merest chance that
placed me in a position to do you a service, Dyke. As I said before,
it seems to me that you are getting careless. Just imagine what the
result would have been had I not put in an appearance. I have the
fellow's coat to show for the adventure."
"True enough. I admit that I was careless," returned the detective,
"and my adventure will serve to put me on my guard hereafter. Come
with me to my room, Harry, and we will talk over matters in general. I
must take the midnight express North, and may not see you again soon,
unless you conclude to go on with me."
"I shall remain in St. Louis for the present," returned young Bernard.
He went with his friend to the hotel, however, and soon the two were
in the privacy of Dyke Darrel's room.
"Now, then, let us look at that coat." Harry Bernard laid the garment
down on the bed, and Darrel began a close examination of the same. It
was an ordinary sack coat, with two inside pockets. The detective was
not long in going through the pockets.
"Ah!"
The ejaculation was significant.
It fell from the lips of Dyke Darrel, the detective.
"Now what?" questioned Bernard.
"Look at that."
Dyke Darrel held aloft a handkerchief that had once been white, but
which was now dingy with dirt. But this was not the only
discoloration. There was a stain on the square bit of linen that was
significant.
"What is it?"
"Blood!" answered Dyke Darrel.
Then the detective made a close examination, and made still another
discovery--a name in one corner of the rumpled handkerchief.
The keen eyes of the detective gleamed with a satisfied light.
"What have you discovered, Dyke?"
"A clew."
"To what?"
"To the most infamous crime of the century. This handkerchief has the
name of its owner stamped plainly in the corner."
"Well?"
"Arnold Nicholson."
"What?"
"That is the name on this bit of linen, which shows that it was once
the property of the murdered express messenger. Of course you have
heard of the crime on the Central?"
"Yes. It gave me a shock, too. Arnold was a good fellow."
Harry Bernard's face wore a serious look as he took the blood-stained
handkerchief from the hand of the detective, and examined it with
mournful interest.
"It must be that you were assaulted by one of the train robbers,
Dyke," said the youth, as he returned the relic of that midnight
crime.
"I imagine so. The scoundrels have discovered that I am on the trail,
and they mean to put me out on the first base, if possible. Did you
see the man's face who assaulted me, Harry?"
"Imperfectly. I know, however, that he had red hair."
"Ah!"
"You suspected as much?"
"Yes. In the dead man's fingers was a bit of red hair. It seems
conclusive that the villain who assaulted me to-night was the one who
engaged in the death struggle with poor Nicholson. The trail is
becoming plain, and before the National holiday rolls round I hope to
have the perpetrator of this crime behind prison bars."
"I hope you are not over-sanguine, Dyke."
"I have ever been successful."
"How about the Osborne case?"
"Ah, yes; but that isn't off yet. I expect that the murderers of the
old captain will come to light about the time the railway criminals
are brought to justice."
"Indeed."
"There are several hands engaged in these bloody crimes, and when I do
make a haul, it will be a wholesale one."
"I should think you would need help in a work of this kind."
"I do."
"Can I be of any service? You may command me, Dyke."
"Thanks. You were of inestimable service to-night, and I believe you
can do more. It would please me to have you remain in this city and
keep an eye out, while I go up the road to the spot where the crime
was committed."
"You know the place?"
"Certainly. It was near Black Hollow, a wild spot, where the woods
along the creek afforded chance for hiding. Some of the rascals are
yet in that vicinity, I believe. The one who assaulted me to-night may
not remain in the city long. You will do as I wish?"
"Certainly; glad to do it, Dyke."
"That settles one point, then. If I need any more help I know where I
can find it."
"Where?"
"Elliston. He is something of a detective, you know."
Harry Bernard frowned at mention of that name. The pleasant look
vanished from his face, and he relapsed into silence.
Holding up the handkerchief, Dyke Darrel said:
"This was used by the assassin to wipe his bloody hands after the
murder. He was a fool to keep the tell-tale linen by him; but these
fellows are always leaving some loophole open. I have made one
discovery that may have escaped your notice, Harry."
"What is that?"
"Look." Laying the bloody handkerchief over the young man's knee, Dyke
Darrel pointed to a spot near the center, where the imprint of fingers
was plainly visible.
"You see that?"
"Certainly; the marks of human fingers, but I can't see that you will
be able to make anything out of that, so many hands are alike, you
know."
Then Harry laid his own hand against the spot stained with blood. "My
hand fits exactly."
The eyes of Dyke Darrel began to dilate. His usually immobile features
began to twitch, and a deadly pallor overspread all.
What was it that had caught the eye of Dyke Darrel, to cause such
terrible emotion? He had indeed made a discovery.
A close examination of the finger-marks showed a white circle,
centered with a ragged dot of blood near the knuckle; this had
undoubtedly been caused by a wart on the hand of the assassin. It was
this fact that had attracted and interested Dyke Darrel, and what he
intended showing his friend Harry Bernard. The moment Harry laid his
hand against the print on the handkerchief the detective made a
startling discovery. Not only did the hand of Harry Bernard fit the
bloody stain exactly, but a large wart near the knuckle of the little
finger fell exactly against the spot that dotted the center of the
white circle.
A feeling of unutterable horror filled the mind of Dyke Darrel at that
moment. Harry Bernard had been his friend for years, and he had always
found him upright and true.
But what meant this horrible revelation of the handkerchief?
Could it be possible that another had the same-sized hand and a wart
near the knuckle of the little finger? It was not likely.
Dyke Darrel came to his feet, with cold perspiration oozing out upon
his brow. Before him sat Harry Bernard, smiling gently, and yet he had
a devil in his heart--THE DEVIL OF ASSASSINATION!