CHAPTER VIII

COGGINS'S CROWNING EFFORT

"There was an empty bedroom in one of the two towers which rise on

either front of Balin Abbey. I had Lord Balin's permission to use it

for purposes of observation, and I directed Macgregor to go thither

and watch. He came to me in about half an hour to report that he

could hear nothing of the hounds. Generally one or other of them

were on the move all through the night, and their footsteps could be

heard, or their panting as they galloped slowly across the turf, or

the rustling of the evergreens as they pushed their way through the

shrubberies; to-night he had not heard a sign of them.

"'The scoundrel has drugged them or poisoned them!' I said.

"It looked like it.

"'Then he means to be up to something to-night,' said O'Brien.

"'Go back to the tower, Macgregor, and watch for what happens. Go,

both of you, and keep a good look out, and let O'Brien come here and

report when you notice anything.'

"The tower stands out from the corner of the main building, and the

windows command full views of two sides of the house, of the front

and of the western side where the conservatory is and to which Mrs.

Townley and my rooms look. Only on this side can the house be broken

into. Here, then, was the point of danger.

"I had waited in the dark for nearly two hours, and, tired out with

my day's shooting and my many anxieties, was all but asleep, with my

arms on the table and my head resting on them, when O'Brien opened

the door hastily and said in a loud whisper:

"'The rascal's at work, sir!'

"'What's happened?' I asked, hardly daring to believe the good news.

"'We heard Mrs. Townley open her window just now, and chuck something

out.'

"'The knotted rope!'

"We can't see a thing, the night's so thick, but we can hear him

climbing up against the creepers on the wall, hand over hand.'

"'Send Macgregor here, and you run to the two constables below and

tell them to post themselves in the passage leading to the

conservatory. There is no hurry. There let them stay till they hear

me give three stamps on the floor overhead. Then they are to run out

and nab any one coming down a rope from Mrs. Townley's window.

Explain it all clearly to them, O'Brien. Let them stick closely to

my instructions; and then you come back quietly into my room. Pull

your boots off as you come upstairs.'

"Macgregor and I waited a good ten minutes. We removed our boots as

a matter of precaution. Presently O'Brien entered the room barefoot.

We had heard, or thought we heard, some one stirring in Mrs.

Townley's room, but it was only after some minutes' waiting that we

heard the door softly open. We waited a few minutes. Then I opened

the door of my room and listened. I could hear the sound of

stockinged feet some way up the corridor. I knew it must be Coggins.

"I followed the footsteps, after, whispering to Macgregor to follow

on some yards behind me.

"'What is he at?' I wondered, as I cautiously went forward through

the darkness in the direction of the footfall. To what was he

leading me? I wondered, for he did not go in the direction of the

living part of the house.

"He seemed to know every inch of the way in the dark, and turned

sharp to the right and left more than once.

"Finally he came to a sudden stop. I heard the opening of a door; he

went forward, half closing it behind him. I waited for a moment to

let Macgregor come up. I could see now that the burglar carried a

dark lantern with him. He turned it on, flashing the light upon the

walls. To my astonishment he had entered the famous picture gallery

of Balin Abbey. I saw the light of his lantern flash upon great

luminous canvases of Rubens, upon sweet portraits of girls by Romney

and Reynolds, upon masterpieces of Velasquez and Titian. Was

O'Brien's prediction come true? Was the rascal coveting some of the

works of the great masters which Lady Drusilla told me the Mr.

Townley, whom I made no doubt was Coggins, had once criticized so

acutely? I almost laughed at the fellow's audacity.

"This certainly was his object, and he now set to work to carry it

out. He began with a beautiful picture of three nymphs in a woodland

landscape by Rubens. It was a picture full of a golden and rosy

light, and the bright surface reflected the gleam of the bull's-eye

lantern carried at his waist-belt. The reflected light clearly

revealed all his movements in outline. He took from his pocket a

knife and cut along the bottom line of the inner frame, then as high

as he could reach on each side. Then, standing on a table which he

had moved in front of the picture, he cut along the top and sides.

In another moment he had put up his two hands and was steadily

ripping the canvas down and off the backing of the frame, with a dull

rasping noise as when a saw passes through soft wood; then he turned,

and for a moment we could see his face and the knife with its

gleaming blade between his teeth, I saw, too, the handle of a

revolver protruding from his breast pocket.

"He leaped lightly from the table and rolled the canvas up. His

actions were almost monkey-like in their nimbleness. He moved the

table to another picture and we saw the light stream upon it. It was

the portrait of a lady in a gray dress slashed with black and

embroidered with silver lace on the shoulders and sleeves--the

portrait of a young queen, by Velasquez--a face with a proud

disdainful smile. I saw him use his knife upon this lifelike

presentment of a noble woman, with something of the horror with which

I should see him prepare to attack a living human being. The painted

face and figure formed a point of light in that great vault of

blackness which is before me at this moment that I speak to you as

vividly as I saw it that night.

"Macgregor pressed forward as Coggins passed the knife quickly round

the edge of the picture. I laid my hand on his shoulder and

whispered 'Wait!' in his ear. When the burglar put up his hand and

began drawing off the canvas from the back, I took advantage of the

sound of tearing to throw wide open the door and, together, we rushed

in upon the burglar. Together, we leaped up at him on the table, but

before we could reach him he had heard us, turned, taken the knife in

one hand and drawn the revolver with the other. Macgregor had seized

one wrist, I the other, in the uncertain light. The table fell, and

all three of us lay struggling on the ground. One barrel of the

revolver went off, and he stabbed at us both repeatedly with the

knife. The burning powder singed my hair, but the ball struck

neither of us, and after a minute Macgregor got the pistol from him.

He had struck Macgregor once savagely with the knife on the shoulder,

but I had hold of his wrist and the blow glanced, and though it cut

through the cloth of Macgregor's coat, it only just grazed the skin.

The struggle on the floor lasted but a minute or two. Then we

overmastered him. O'Brien ran up as we held him and slipped the

handcuffs over his wrists. The Irishman picked up the lantern, which

had fallen to the ground and had cast only a flickering and uncertain

light during our fight with the criminal. Not a word had been spoken

by any of us.

"'Take him to the room in the tower, Macgregor,' I whispered in

Macgregor's ear, 'and answer no questions if the prisoner asks any.

Make no noise as you go.'

"I had expected the gallery to fill at once with people from the

house, roused by the crash of the falling table, and more still by

the report of the pistol, but nothing of the sort happened. The

picture gallery lies far away from the inhabited portion of the

Abbey, being reached through long and tortuous corridors. The door

had shut to as Macgregor and I rushed in, and though the noise of the

pistol discharge seemed deafening to us, as it reverberated through

the vaulted roof of the gallery, it turned out that not a soul but

ourselves had heard anything.

"I went downstairs and brought up the two officers from their post

near the conservatory. I told them we had captured our man, and that

their duty would be to watch him during the night.

"It was now nearly three o'clock. By daylight I was up again and had

gone out. I saw the keepers assembled on the lawn. They were

greatly disturbed by the non-appearance of the bloodhounds. The dogs

had not answered, as usual, to the keepers' call, and a search in the

shrubberies presently resulted in finding the bodies of all four of

them lying dead and stark.

"I spent two hours in writing a report to my chief. I felt that luck

had greatly befriended me all through--I had succeeded in every

point. I had recovered the lost jewels. I had brought the robbery

home to the actual thieves--that is, morally brought it home, for

even now it was doubtful if legal evidence could have been brought

against Coggins for the jewel robbery, but I had established a clear

case of burglary in the matter of the pictures against the man

suspected so often and never yet in durance for an hour.

"It was nine o'clock. I dressed and sent in word to Lord Balin that

I would like to see him before breakfast.

"I said, 'My business is done. I have found the stolen jewels---here

they are,' and I laid the paper parcel before him. 'One of the

thieves was Mrs. Townley, but the instigator and real criminal was

Coggins, alias Towers, who is the husband of Mrs. Townley. The man

Coggins broke into the Abbey last night for the second time, and we

were able to arrest him in the very act of stealing your pictures.

He is now a prisoner in the tower room. No one in the house knows

anything of the matter, not even Mrs. Townley.'

"'Stop! stop!' said Lord Balin, raising his hands. 'You overwhelm

me! What! found the jewels and arrested the thief? Why--why, you

are the most extraordinary fellow in the whole world--you shoot my

pheasants for me when I couldn't get any one else to, you entertain

my guests as no one else does--and now, in a turn of the hand, you

find the lost property and arrest the thief. You are a wonderful

fellow, my dear Stanley!'

"'Morgan now, Lord Balin--Sergeant Morgan, at your service. The

comedy is over.'

"'Nothing is over, Morgan--if you will let me call you that and,' he

added, holding out his hand, 'and my friend; and do not forget that I

owe you a debt of gratitude that I shall never be able to discharge.'

"Then he changed the subject suddenly. 'And that poor woman, Morgan?

What are we to do with her--arrest her too, charge her with the

theft, and get her put into prison?'

"'It seems hard upon her,' I said; 'she acted under the influence and

compulsion of her husband.'

"'It is damned hard, Morgan. Though I confess I never liked the

woman; but a pretty woman and my guest! No, no!'

"'The moral evidence,' I said, 'against Mrs. Townley is

overwhelming--the legal evidence almost _nil_. I doubt if we could

secure a conviction. I have told my chief so. Counsel for her

defense would be sure to argue, If she was the thief, why did Coggins

run the risk of breaking into the house?'

"'To be sure,' said Lord Balin, 'why did he?'

"'Because he would know that he couldn't trust her to do the trick

herself. It takes pluck, nerve and experience which no ordinary

woman possesses. Even if she had all the will in the world, Mrs.

Townley could not have gone through the rooms single-handed and

stolen the jewels herself.'

"'Then you think he did it alone?'

"'Alone or together, who can tell?'

"'I tell you what, Morgan. Let's think it over presently. Come in

to breakfast now--the second gong has gone long ago--come in and be

Robert Stanley once more. Let us ignore everything for the moment

and see what this wretched woman will do and say.'

"'Remember,' I said, 'that she can know nothing as yet. My men are

to be trusted, and they won't have spoken to any one in the house.

The man passed through her bedroom toward the picture gallery. She

certainly knew his errand, for he had brought a dark lantern and a

sharp-cutting knife with him. He did not return. She would guess

that he found it best to make his escape in some other way than back

through her room, for she, having heard nothing of the struggle,

would naturally conclude that her friend got safe off.'

"'Just so,' said Lord Balin. 'I will call her in here after

breakfast and tell her what has happened. I shall tell her she must

leave my house at once and for good, but I will tell her also that,

so far as I am concerned, I will not prosecute her. If the

authorities choose to press for a prosecution it shall not be my act

or by my advice.'

"I thought that line was equitable, and I said so. I ventured to

doubt if it were strictly legal.

"Lord Balin laughed. 'Law be hanged, Morgan! equity and poetical

justice forever! But come to breakfast; you must be hungry after

your night's work.'

"We had sat down and taken our places before Mrs. Townley entered the

room. I cannot say that her face was pale, for it was more highly

colored than ever, but her unquiet eyes and her trembling mouth told

the tale of the night's anguish. Lord Balin greeted her with no

change of his accustomed morning cordiality. She was more carefully,

more exquisitely dressed than usual, and her hair seemed to have

undergone the attentions of a professional hair-dresser. She talked

and laughed freely, but I could see that she looked and listened for

any stray revelation of the events of that terrible night.

"The butler came in and spoke in a low voice to Lord Balin.

"'His Lordship half rose from his seat in anger. Poisoned them!

What! all four? Confound the sneaking villain!' Then he sat down,

having mastered his wrath.

"'I beg your pardon,' he said, turning to his guests, 'but what do

you think? The scoundrel who robbed this house three days ago, and

who has been hanging about the neighborhood for weeks past, has

poisoned four of my bloodhounds!'

"I looked at Mrs. Townley. She gave a nervous start, and a shudder

shook her whole body for a moment. Lord Balin caught sight of her

frightened face, and in a moment his chivalry to a guest and a woman

came back to him.

"He smiled and changed the subject. So did the meal pass off, and I

could not but marvel at the possibility of what may happen in a great

house, in the night-time, in the way of moving human drama, and its

inmates, guests and servants, have no inkling of what has passed.

"'Mrs. Townley,' said Lord Balin, but so much in his usual tone that

I could see it did not alarm his guest, 'I have some news for you.

Will you join me in the library presently?'

"Then he left his guests, giving me a look to follow him. Mrs.

Townley rose to leave the room. I opened the door for her, and

followed her into Lord Balin's private room.

"He motioned her to a seat and began at once.

"'It is very painful, Mrs. Townley, for me to have to say what I am

going to. Don't please interrupt me till I have quite finished, and

then say what you will.'

"Lord Balin's tone was not stern. It was rather sad, but he spoke

without hesitation.

"'I want to speak to you about the robbery of jewels here three days

ago. This gentleman'--he looked at me--'is an officer of the

detective service, and he authorizes me to say that the settings of

the lost gems were found hidden among the Abbey Ruins; the gems

themselves, which you twice endeavored to pass to the disguised

burglar--'

"'Lord Balin!' exclaimed the unhappy woman.

"Lord Balin went on: 'The stones themselves were finally found, as

had been indicated by you in a signal to the man Coggins, in the

handle of your racquet.'

"Mrs. Townley groaned and hid her face.

"'They are all there,' said Lord Balin, pointing to a cabinet,

'except the pearls and diamonds which you told us you had lost. We

have reason to know that your husband broke into this house on the

23d, and went or induced you to go to the rooms of the persons who

had drunk of the barley water that you had drugged.'

"Mrs. Townley groaned again.

"'Your husband broke in for the second time again last night, passing

through your bedroom. He intended to rob me of the pictures which he

had admired at his visit here, and of which no one knew better than

himself the value.'

"When Lord Balin had got so far, Mrs. Townley probably made sure that

her husband had baffled the police once more and got safely away.

She looked up, smiled through her tears, and shook her head.

"'He was arrested in the very act,' Lord Balin went on, 'and will

stand his trial for burglary.'

"The woman's face fell, she almost shrieked put the word 'Arrested!'

"Lord Balin bowed. 'You do not, I suppose, seek to deny any part of

what I have said?'

"The unhappy woman muttered some incoherent words, and again hid her

face in her hands.

"'I have no intention of prosecuting you, Mrs. Townley. I shall

advise the authorities not to do so, on the ground that you acted

under the compulsion of your husband.'

"Mrs. Townley raised her head, with something of a reprieved look in

her face.

"'Lord Balin I you are very generous to me--very generous'--she

wept--'to a most unhappy woman--guilty, yes, but, oh, if you could

only know!'

"'Mrs. Townley,' said Lord Balin, almost kindly, 'I wish to force no

confession from you, but one thing I must tell you. You must leave

my house at once, pretexting some sudden call of business. You will

do so without again seeing my other guests. I will not betray you to

them. Now go,' he said more sternly, 'and make your preparations to

leave. The carriage will take you to the station in two hours' time

from now.'

"Mrs. Townley got up, and without any leave-taking quitted the room.

Again, as before, I opened the door to let her go out.

"'Lord Balin,' said I, 'may I ask you a favor?

"'_May_ you ask me!' said my host, smiling.

"'It is that you will allow me to have a parting interview with a

lady I have reason to respect very greatly.'

"'My cousin, Drusilla Lancaster?'

"'Yes.'

"Lord Balin rang the bell and told the butler to beg Lady Drusilla

Lancaster to come to the library in order to hear some important news.

"'Tell her, please,' I said, 'when she comes, who I am and why I came

here.'

"'I will, Morgan,' said Lord Balin; 'I will, my dear fellow; but, I

say, we won't give that poor woman away even to Lady Drusilla?'

"'No! no! On no account.'

"'Drusilla,' said Lord Balin, 'I have a confession to make to you,

and to you alone, mind, from my friend here. He is not Robert

Stanley; he is Mr. Morgan, of the detective service.'

"'I thought he was too nice for a millionaire,' said Lady Drusilla,

smiling, and otherwise unimpressed.

"'I owe him an enormous debt of gratitude,' Lord Balin went on. 'He

has recovered all the jewels that were stolen here, and he has

arrested the thief.'

"'The thief?' asked Lady Drusilla, with a curiously shrewd look.

"'Yes, the famous burglar, Coggins--Gentleman Coggins, who has

baffled the whole London police for four years. Last night he made

an attempt upon my picture gallery, and Mr. Morgan arrested him in

the act.'

"'Well done!' said Lady Drusilla, turning to me.

"'I have begged Lord Balin,' I said, 'to give me the chance of

apologizing to you for the miserable part I played with you--'

"'Miserable part!' exclaimed Lady Drusilla; 'why, this sort of thing

is nearly the only real action possible in this tame age. In my

eyes--Mr.--Mr.--what am I to call you?'

"'Morgan,' said Lord Balin.

"'In my eyes, Mr. Morgan, you are a knight errant--you think and you

act in the interests of the rest of us, and that is to be the only

sort of knight errant and hero possible in these days.'

"She came forward and took my hand in both hers.

"'Mr. Morgan, you and I are going to be great friends, are we not?'

she laughed. 'Do, if you please, come and have tea with me in Hill

Street, next Friday.'

"I have nothing more to say about this case at Balin Abbey except

this. My short twenty-four hours' work at Balin Abbey won me

inspectorship, and, on my favorable report, Macgregor and O'Brien

were promoted to be Sergeants.

"But I have gained what I esteem even more highly, the life-long

friendship of my host at the Abbey and of Lady Drusilla Lancaster.

"The authorities took Lord Balin's advice and did not prosecute Mrs.

Townley.

"Gentleman Coggins, _alias_ Towers, _alias_ Townley, got five years'

penal servitude.

"Mrs. Townley resumed her luxurious life in Park Lane. Her jewels,

her dress, her motor cars, her yacht, her chef, her charming dinners,

her bridge evenings (when the play runs high) are more than ever the

talk of the town. She is said to be the richest grass widow on this

side of the Atlantic; for she admits herself that grass widow is now

quite an applicable name for her. It is too bad of my husband,' she

says; 'he never seems to have time to come home. One day I get a

postcard from Pekin telling me of how he has a valuable concession

from the Dowager Empress, two months later a wire comes from South

America, then he is heard of in Japan! It is very hard upon his poor

wife.'

"The supposed financial wanderer is, however, still doing time at

Broadmoor, and we, in the force, are wondering whether, when he comes

out, he will resume the very lucrative business of Ikey Coggins or

the far less profitable but safer profession of city financier. We

hope he will continue in the burglaring rather than the financing

line. We know more now about Gentleman Coggins than we did, and

believe we could catch him tripping; anyhow, we can always follow a

criminal in that line with some hopes of running him in, whereas the

person who practices the more speculative branches of the profession

is mostly quite beyond the reach of the law."

The Murder at Jex Farm

BY OSWALD CRAWFURD, C.M.G.

CHAPTER I

CHARLES JEX

Inspector Morgan and I were sitting over the fire one particularly

cheerless winter night at my lodgings in Duke Street. The Inspector

had brought with him a thick bundle of documents. He threw them on

the table between us as he came in. As usual, our talk had fallen

upon the art, or science of crime detection.

"Do you remember," asked Morgan, "my once saying that the first thing

a clever criminal does is to try his best to block the way of the man

who has to follow up the track of his crime?"

"I shall do that myself," said I, "if I ever commit a serious crime."

"Of course you would, so should I, and so, I suppose, would any man

with his senses about him. Well, that is just what a man coming

green to detective work is apt to forget. I came near to forgetting

it myself when they sent me down to Jex Farm to inquire about the

murder there. You must remember the case, for it made a great stir

at the time."

"I hope you are going to tell me all about it, Morgan. One does not

carry these things in one's head. One big crime gets mixed up with

another."

"I came here meaning to tell you the whole story," said the

Inspector, taking hold of the bundle of papers and untying the knots

of red tape which bound them together.

"Are these documents in the case?" I asked.

"Plans and reports, and cuttings from newspapers, but I am only going

to ask you to look at some of them."

"If I am not mistaken, Morgan, the papers spoke very handsomely of

your conduct of the Jex Farm case."

"They did, but they had little reason to. If they had known all the

facts as well as you will presently know them, they might have

handled me differently. It is wonderful what the papers do get to

know, but, naturally, they can't see things from the inside as we

can."

"Well, Morgan, get to the story. I want to hear it."

"There is not much of a story to tell, so far as the outside facts

were concerned. It is only the inside working of things that made it

interesting. A young girl had been found lying at the orchard gate

of the farm, 37½ yards from the house, dead, with three pistol

bullets in her head. Suicide was out of the question, the three

wounds and the three bullets precluded that, and there was no pistol

about. Moreover, it was not in evidence that the girl had any cause

for despondency. There was no reason for her taking her life. But

then, again, she was not known to have an enemy."

The Inspector took out a newspaper from the bundle of documents,

docketed _Jex Murder Case_, and handed it to me. I read as follows:

"MURDER IN SURREY.--Jex Farm, one mile from the village of Bexton, in

Surrey, was the scene of a terrible and mysterious crime, on the

evening of Wednesday last. A young unmarried lady of the name of

Judson, a niece of Mrs. Jex, the widowed owner of Jex Farm, was found

murdered, late on Wednesday night, just inside the orchard gate of

the farm, and within a stone's throw of the house. There were no

signs of a struggle, but Miss Judson's gold watch and chain were

missing. The crime must have been committed at late dusk on

Wednesday evening, 17th inst. (October). It is singular that no

sound of firearms was heard by any inmate of the house; and the crime

was not discovered till the family were about to meet at supper, when

Miss Judson's absence was noticed.

"After waiting a while and calling the name of the young lady in

vain, the night being very dark and gusty, young Mr. Jex and the

farm-laborers started out with lanterns. They almost immediately

came upon the dead body of the unfortunate young lady, which was

lying on the walk just inside the orchard gate, and it is stated that

the first discoverer of the tragedy was Mr. Jex himself. It adds one

more element of gloom to the fearful event when we add that it is

rumored in the neighborhood that Mr. Jex, the only son of the lady

who owns the farm, was engaged to be married to the victim of this

terrible tragedy.

"No clue has yet been obtained. It is clear that the motive of the

crime was robbery--the young lady's valuable gold watch and chain

were missing--and it is supposed in the neighborhood that, as the

high road runs within twenty yards of the scene of the tragedy, the

perpetrator may have been one of a very rough set of bicyclists who

were drinking at the Red Lion at Bexton in the afternoon, and who

were seen, at nightfall, to retrace their journey in the direction of

Jex Farm. We understand that Inspector Morgan, the well-known London

detective, has been despatched from Scotland Yard to the scene of the

murder. Inspector Morgan is the officer whose name has recently

attained considerable prominence in connection with the discovery and

conviction of the perpetrator of the great jewel robbery at Balin

Abbey."

"Rather penny-a-lining and wordy," observed Mr. Morgan as I finished

reading the paragraph aloud, "but barring the too-flattering allusion

to myself, on the whole, a fair enough account of the facts.

"I found that it was young Mr. Jex himself who supplied the

information about the bicyclists. He had been shooting rabbits at an

outlying farm of his own a couple of miles beyond Bexton, and,

stopping to get a glass of beer at the chief inn there, found himself

surrounded in the bar by a group of rowdy bicyclists. The Surrey

countryman generally dislikes the cycling Londoners who travel along

the roads of his county in extraordinary numbers. Mr. Jex had

noticed that these men, instead of continuing their journey toward

London, had turned again in the direction of Jex Farm. If they

repassed the Lion at Bexton, they must have done so at night, for

they were not seen again.

"Mr. Jex is a fine young man with good looks, a little over thirty

years of age, six foot one in height, a sportsman, and popular in the

neighborhood. But I will confess at once to you that the ways and

manners of the man did not find much favor with me. However, he

seemed very ready to give me every assistance in his power. He is

resolved, he says, to bring the villains to justice.

"His mother is a kind and motherly old lady, rather infirm in health

and slightly deaf. She herself gave me to understand that she fully

approved of the approaching marriage of her son. I gather in the

neighborhood that Mr. Jex, like so many of his class, has been very

hard hit by the prevailing agricultural depression, and that his

proposed marriage with his cousin, Miss Judson, an orphan, with a

considerable fortune of her own, was something of a godsend to

himself and his family.

"My written orders from headquarters had been to instal myself in the

house, if I could obtain an invitation, in order the better to

unravel the facts of the crime, and I was to take my full time in the

investigation. I showed my instructions on this head to Mrs. Jex and

her son, and was by them at once cordially invited to consider the

farm my home for the time being. I thought it best to leave my two

subordinate officers to do outside work and hear and report outside

rumors. They put up at the Lion at Bexton.

"It was a somewhat delicate situation, and I put it plainly to each

of the inmates of Jex Farm, to Mr. Jex, to his mother, and to a young

lady on a visit to them, Miss Lewsome. I was a detective officer, I

told them, on a mission to detect a great crime. Though I was a

guest at the farm, I was bound, as a police officer, to make a minute

inquiry into everybody's conduct since, and before, the murder. They

must not take it amiss if I was particular in my questions, and

vexatious in my way of putting them. The reasonableness of all this

was apparent to them all, and I at once began my investigations at

the farm and outside it.

"The first person I interviewed was young Mr. Jex himself. Now, I

repeat that I did not quite like young Mr. Jex's manner. Some

witnesses are too shy and too holding back, and others a good deal

too forward, not to say impatient. Jex was of this class, and I was

a little sharper with him in consequence than I should otherwise have

been. On the 17th he told me he had returned from shooting at his

farm on the other side of Bexton, and he stopped on his way home for

a drink at the Red Lion.

"'At what time?' I asked.

"'It was growing dusk,' said Jex. 'I should say it was within a few

minutes of half-past five or getting on for six; three men were

drinking at the bar, bicyclists; I was thinking they would be

overtaken by night; I did not like the looks of those men.'

"'Never mind the bicyclists, for the present, Mr. Jex. You stayed

some time in the bar?'

"'An hour or more.'

"'Did you meet any one you knew at the Lion? Any neighbors?'

"'Yes, I met James Barton and--'

"'Don't trouble yourself with their names just now! You met friends

who can speak to your being at the inn?'

"'I did.'

"'That will do. I want to get to the dates. At about 6:30 you

started for home?'

"'It was on the stroke of seven, by the clock of the Lion.'

"'You had no doubt taken a glass or two of ale?'

"'No, I took a glass of whisky and water.'

"'Or two?'

"'I took two glasses.'

"You took two glasses of whisky and water, good; and then you set off

for the farm? Was your man still with you?'

"'What man?'

"'The man who carried your game, or was it a boy?'

"'I had no man, or boy, with me. I had brought three rabbits in my

pocket, and these I left as a present to Mrs. Jones of the Lion.'

"You were carrying your gun, of course?'

"'Of course I was.'

"'Was it loaded?'

"'Yes, but I drew the charges as I neared home.'

"'You noticed nothing unusual as you came in?'

"'Nothing.'

"'Yet you passed within a yard of the orchard gate where the poor

girl must have been lying dead?'

"'I did, of course, but it was pitch dark under the trees. I saw

nothing but the lights in the parlor windows from the time I opened

the gate out of the road.'

"'And coming along the road from Bexton you did not notice, or hear

anything?'

"'Yes, I saw the lanterns of three cyclists coming toward me when I

had got only a few hundred yards from the Lion. I never saw men

traveling faster by night; they nearly got me down in the road

between them.'

"'Were they the men who had been drinking at the Lion?'

"'I couldn't see, it was too dark. They never slackened speed; I

just felt the swish and wind of their machines as they shaved past

me.'

"'You noticed nothing else on the road home?"

"'Yes, I thought I heard some shots far away--poachers, I thought at

the time--in Squire Watson's woods.'

"'How many shots?'

"'Three.'

"'Close together?'

"'As close as I speak now: one--two--three.'

"'Was this long after you met the cyclists?'

"He took a moment to think. 'Come, Mr. Jex, you can't want time to

answer such a simple question?'

"'It was some time before I met them.'

"'How far might it have been from the Lion when you heard the three

shots?'

"'A matter of half a mile or so.'

"'Then it was after you met the cyclists?'

"'No, it was before.'

"'It was after, for you told me just now you met them a few hundred

yards on your way home, and now you say you heard the shots when you

were half a mile on your way home. Half a mile is not a few hundred

yards; it is 880 yards.'

"Mr. Jex seemed puzzled.

"'You are too sharp on a fellow!' he said.

"'I had need to be, perhaps, Mr. Jex,' I answered.

"'Now, Mr. Jex,' I said, 'there is another point on which I am afraid

I must question you.'

"'I guess what it is,' said he; 'go ahead. You mean about me and

Miss Judson?'

"'That is so, about Miss Judson and yourself. You were engaged to

her?'

"'I was.'

"'Had the engagement lasted long?'

"'A month.'

"'And she had been two months your mother's guest at the farm?'

"'Going on for three.'

"'And there was nothing standing against your wishes?'

"'I don't understand what sort of thing you mean.'

"'Well, any misunderstanding between you--quarrels, you know?'

"'Oh, lovers' quarrels! They don't amount to much, do they? We had

the usual number, I suppose.' (This is a queer, indifferent sort of

a lover, I thought.)

"'Well, even a lover's quarrel has a cause, I suppose--and it's

mostly jealousy; perhaps there was some neighbor you did not fancy

the look of?'

"'God bless you, no! Hiss Judson hardly knew the neighbors.'

"'Or some old London friend the young lady may have had a liking for

once?'

"'Couldn't be,' said Jex positively. 'Because Mary only had one

friend. She had been engaged to him, and she threw him over. She

fancied me better, you see. She told me all about him. She told me

everything, you know.'

"'Ah, I suppose women always do!"

"'They do when they care for a fellow,' said Jex warmly.

"The man's way of talking of the poor dead girl grated upon me most

unpleasantly.

"'Well, perhaps they do, Mr. Jex, but you see, here's a mysterious

crime, and I want to find a motive for it.'

"'Who could have a motive?' asked Mr. Jex.

"'Possibly a disappointed rival--from London.'

"'Why, man,' said Jex, 'I tell you it couldn't be; the man I spoke of

is in New Zealand--thousands of miles away. I tell you the motive

was robbery. Why wasn't the girl's gold watch and chain taken?'

"'That might be a blind, Mr. Jex,' said I, looking him straight in

the face; 'it's a common trick, that.'

"'Oh, nonsense; we all agreed at the inquest it was robbery, and we

fastened it on to those three cyclists I saw at the Lion, coming back

along the road, hot-foot, just in the nick of time to do the trick.

Don't you go wasting your time, Morgan, over rivals, and rot of that

kind!'

"I let this very positive gentleman run on, but I thought well

presently to throw a little cold water over his cocksureness.

"'Mr. Jex,' I said, 'do you remember that at the inquest the county

police put in plaster casts of all the footprints found next morning

round about where the body had lain?'

"'Well, what if they did?'

"'Only that I've just compared those footprints with the bootprints

of the inmates of this house, and the marks correspond with the boots

worn by the three laborers at the farm, and--by yourself.'

"This seemed to stagger him a bit.

"'Of course,' he said, 'we made those marks when we brought the body

in.'

"'I know that,' I said.

"'And one country boot,' said Jex, 'is just as like another as one

pea is like another.'

"'Not quite so like as that, Mr. Jex, and did you ever know a cyclist

to rids his machine in hobnailed boots? There was no single

footprint in or near the place but what had heavy hobnails showing.

So, you see, the murderer could not be one of your bicyclists.'

"Jex kept silence for a minute, and paled as I watched him.

"'The man who committed this murder, Mr. Jex,' I said, 'never wore a

cyclist's shoe or boot.'

"'I'll tell you what,' said Jex, after a longish pause, 'we'd

trampled down the ground a good bit all round; we must have trampled

out the murderer's footprints.'

"It's just possible,' I said, 'but not likely that he shouldn't have

left a square inch of shoeprint anywhere. However, that is of no

matter to me at present. I've another bit of evidence that I'll work

out first.'

"'A clue?' asked Jex eagerly. 'What is it?'

"'Well, Mr. Jex, you'll excuse me for not mentioning it just at

present. You'll know soon enough.' I gave him a moment to think over

the matter, then I went on:

"'Now, sir, I should like to ask you one or two more questions, if

you're quite agreeable.'

"'Fire away,' said Jex, 'I'm here to answer you.'

"'I'm told you used to meet Miss Judson on your return from shooting,

or what not, at the orchard gate leading out of the flower garden?'

"That's so."

"'At nightfall?'

"'Yes, as it grew from dusk to dark.'

"'Might she be expecting you there on the 17th, just as night fell?'

"'Likely she might.'

"'But about that time you were drinking in the bar-parlor of the

Lion?'

"'Well, if you call two small goes of whisky and water after a long

walk, drinking, I was.'

"'The landlady is an old friend of your mother's, I'm told?'

"Jex laughed. 'Whoever told you that, told you wrong; my mother does

not particularly cotton to Mrs. Jones.'

"'What! the two old ladies don't hit it off?'

"'Who told you that Mrs. Jones was an old lady?' said Jex. 'She's a

young widow, and a pretty one into the bargain.'

"'That accounts,' said I, 'for the present of rabbits, eh?'

"Jex winked. Decidedly I don't like this young man."

CHAPTER II

MAUD LEWSOME AND HER DIARY

I have mentioned a fourth inmate at Jex Farm at the time of the

murder, in the person of Miss Maud Lewsome, a young lady friend of

Miss Judson's, and a distant cousin of hers, but no blood relation of

the Jex family. Miss Lewsome had come as a friend of Miss Judson,

and had resided at the farm some five or six weeks. She is a tall,

dark, handsome girl, gentle and reserved in manner, but, as I should

judge, extremely intelligent. I hear that her profession in life is

the literary one, but whether in the way of novel-writing, or

journalism, I am not told. She had also been for a short time on the

stage. I have, as yet, had hardly any conversation with Miss

Lewsome, so overcome is she with the nervous shock of the tragedy of

her dearest friend.

I need not reproduce here at any length the evidence of the country

surgeon who made the post-mortem, as given at the inquest. It was to

the effect that death had resulted from three bullet wounds in the

side of the head, one just behind the ear and two just above it. The

shots must have been fired from the distance of some few yards, for

there was no burning or discoloration of the skin. That they must

have been fired in rapid succession was evident from the fact of the

three wounds being within a circle whose diameter was not more than

three inches in length. The charges of powder, in the doctor's

opinion, must have been light, for, after passing through the walls

of the skull, there was little penetration. The bullets, all three,

had been extracted--very small round leaden bullets hardly bigger

than large peas, and not of the conical shape used in revolvers of

the more expensive kind. Death must have been instantaneous, for the

bullets were all three found buried in the brain, one still

spherical, the others flattened by contact with bone.

Now, it is obvious that this circumstance increases the difficulty

connected with the fact that no one at the farm, neither Mrs. Jex nor

Miss Lewsome, nor any of the laborers or female servants, who were

indoors and at supper at the time, had heard the sound of firearms.

It is true that on the evening of the 17th half a gale of wind was

blowing from the northwest, and the orchard, where the fatal shots

were fired, is nearly south of the house. All doors and windows were

closed, the night having turned cold and rainy, but the sitting-room

faces the southeast, and, though a tall yew hedge interposed, it was

difficult to understand how three pistol shots, fired less than forty

yards away, should not be audible by the inmates of the room. Was

Mrs. Jex hard of hearing? I asked her. Only very slightly so, she

declared. Had she heard positively nothing? Nothing but the roaring

of the wind in the chimney and, every now and then, the rattling of

the windows. Was she absorbed in reading, or talk? No, she was

knitting by the fireside. Miss Lewsome had been writing at the table

all the evening. From time to time, Mrs. Jex told me, she had talked

with Miss Lewsome, who had remained with her in the sitting-room from

before sun-down till supper time.

I then examined Miss Lewsome by herself, as I had already examined

Mrs. Jex. She corroborated what that lady had said. The wind was

loud that night, said Miss Lewsome. It rattled the windows and made

a great noise in the chimney. She was writing all the evening, she

said.

"Forgive, my curiosity," I said, "was it something that took up your

attention and would have prevented your hearing a noise outside?"

She hesitated. "I was writing up my diary," she answered.

"You keep a regular diary?"

"Yes."

"May I see it?"

"Oh, no!" she said. "That would be impossible. I could not show it

to any one. You must really not ask to see it."

"I am sorry," I said, "I am afraid you must let me read it."

"Why?"

"Because I am a police officer, and am here to inquire into the death

by violence of Miss Mary Judson, and because your diary may throw

some light upon the circumstances of the crime."

"How can it help you? It is all--personal; all about myself."

"I am not in a position to say how the diary can help me till I have

seen it; but see it I must."

She still hesitated; after a pause she asked:

"Do you really insist?"

"I am afraid I must."

She walked to her desk, opened it, and gave me a leather-covered

book, locked, and put it, with the key, into my hands.

That night I read the diary. The entries were, as Miss Lewsome had

told me, scanty, that is, at first, referring to such trivial events

as her arrival at the farm, for the diary began with the beginning of

her visit. As it went on, however, the entries became fuller, and

the occurrences of the six or seven days previous to the murder were

narrated with considerable fullness. Before I had ended my perusal

of the book, certain vague suspicions that had already formed

themselves in my mind began to gather in strength and to acquire full

corroboration.

Inspector Morgan picked out, from the bundle of documents, one

marked: _Extracts from Miss Lewsome's Diary_. This is what he read

out to me:

_October_ 3.--The more I see of what is going on between Charles and

Mary the more I blame myself for my fatal weakness. Had I only known

of their engagement! ... why, oh, why, did they keep it a secret from

me? He never should have learned my passion for him--never should

have ... oh, fool, fool that I have been! Poor Charles, I hardly

blame him. In honor he is bound to poor Mary, and yet I see, day by

day, that he is getting colder and colder to her and more and more

devoted to me. In honor he can't break off his engagement. Poor

fellow, too, he needs his cousin's money. Without it, I know, ruin

stares him in the face. Were it not for that, as he says, he would

break with Mary to-morrow. I believe him.

_October_ 5.--What am I to do? The situation becomes more and more

difficult every day. I see that I must leave Jex Farm, but it will

break my heart, and I fear it will break Charles's too.

_October_ 6.--Mary suspects nothing, though Charles grows daily

colder to her.

_October_ 11.--Charles and I have had an explanation. I have told

him that I can bear it no longer. He said he could not break off the

engagement; if he could, he would. He spoke almost brutally. "I

must have Mary's money," he said. "Without it my mother, I, my

sisters and brothers and the farm must all go to the devil. I hate

the woman!" he cried out. "Don't--don't say that, Charles; it is so

dreadfully cruel and wicked. What has poor Mary done to you?" "She

has come between me and the only woman I ever loved. Is not that

enough?" "But you have told me that your cousin's money must come to

you some day or other?" "Yes, but only on her death." "Don't,

Charles, it is too dreadful." "Yes, isn't it? Just awful!" "Well,

but--" He laughed. "Oh, women never understand business, but I see

what you are driving at, my dear, a _post obit_, or a sale of the

reversion of Mary's estate, eh?" I nodded, just wishing to see what

his meaning was, but, of course, never dreaming of anything so

mercenary and hateful. He went on: "Then you think, I suppose, that

with the cash in hand I could break off with Mary and make amends for

the wrong I have done you? Is that your little game?" At that

moment I almost hated Charles. Tears of mortification came into my

eyes. "Oh, Charles, don't think so meanly of me!" "Meanly! Why,

hang it, it was in my own head, why should it not be in yours, too?

You are the cleverest girl I know, for all you are so quiet; of

course, you thought of it! So did I, only that cock won't fight, my

girl. Oh, no; I consulted a lawyer, and he upset all my little

plans. 'You could not raise a penny,' says he, 'for Miss Judson

might marry, and if she does and dies, her estate goes to her

children, if she has any. Anyhow, you can't touch the reversion till

she dies single, or dies childless.'" "Then, Charles, there is

nothing for me to do but to go out into the wide world, poor,

abandoned and miserable, with all the weight of my sin on me!" He

looked at me a long time with a curious expression in his eyes,

frowning. Then he kissed me suddenly on the mouth. "Maud," he said,

"you love me--really? really? really?" "I love you," I said, "with

all my heart and soul and strength." "And what?" he asked, "what

would you do to gain my--my company forever?" I made him no answer,

for I did not understand him. I do not understand him now. Then he

said suddenly, "If you look at me like that with those great brown

eyes of yours and kiss me with those lips I would ... by Jove! there

is nothing, nothing I would not--" Then, without another reasonable

word and with an oath, he broke from me and left the room.

The last entry in Miss Lewsome's diary was made and dated on the

evening of the murder, and it was no doubt written at the very moment

that the tragedy was being enacted within a few yards of the

farmhouse windows. The handwriting of this last entry, I noticed,

was as firm as it had been throughout--such a hand as I should have

expected from what I knew and had heard of this young lady's

character and temperament. She is a strikingly beautiful,

dark-skinned girl, quiet and reticent in manner, impulsive and

headstrong, perhaps, where her passions lead her--the diary proves

this only too clearly--but gentle, repressed in all her ways and

speech; a woman, in short, with such powers of fascination as few men

can resist. It is just such a girl as this for whom men commit

untold follies, and just such a girl as would hold such an obstinate,

dull-witted, overbearing, young fellow as I see Charles Jex to be, in

the hollow of her hand. These lines that follow are the last in the

diary.

"I have had a long talk with Mary to-day. Charlie has at last spoken

to her about his feelings toward her and his feelings toward me. He

has told her plainly that he no longer cares for her, but that he

will marry her if she insists upon holding him to his promise. The

communication has come upon her as a shock, she said. She was

overwhelmed. She could give him no answer. She could not believe

that I had encouraged him. Did I love him? she asked me. Did he

really love me? Was it not all a horrible dream? I told her the

truth, or as much of it as I dared. I told her he had made me care

for him long before I knew, or even guessed, there was anything

between him and her. I would go at once. To-morrow I could take the

train to town and never trouble him, or her, or any one connected

with Jex Farm again. Poor Mary cried--she behaved beautifully. She

said, 'Maud, you love him, he loves you. You can make him happy, I

see now that I cannot. His happiness is more to me than my own. I

will go away, and you shall be his wife. I will never marry any

one.' We did not speak for several minutes. I could not at first

believe in such a reversal of misery. Then all the difficulties of

the situation flashed upon me. My poverty; the financial ruin he had

to face; the wealth that would save him. 'No,' I said, 'Mary, it

cannot be. You are generous, and I love you, but it cannot be! I

cannot allow you to make this sacrifice.' We talked long together,

and we both of us cried a great deal. I do not think the world holds

so sweet and unselfish a woman as Mary Judson. Whatever our lots are

in life, hers and mine, we shall always be as sisters one to the

other. To-morrow I leave Jex Farm."

CHAPTER III

FRESH EVIDENCE

The immediate effect upon my mind of the reading of Miss Lewsome's

diary was to supply me with what had been wanting: a motive for the

crime. Everything had pointed in my estimation to treachery in the

household; everything seemed to be against the possibility of the

crime being committed by an outsider.

Assuming thieves and murderers not connected with the household, what

possible reason could have brought them to run such a risk as to

shoot down an innocent, unoffending girl within forty yards of a

dwelling-house, where probably several men were within call, and

certainly within earshot of the sound of firearms? Then again, if a

stranger had done this thing for the sake of robbery, how could he be

sure that the girl would have money or a watch about her? A third

and stronger reason against any stranger criminal was the fact that

no stranger had left the imprint of his steps in the garden plot near

the gate on the further side of which the girl had fallen. Her head,

as she lay, all but touched the lower bar of the orchard gate. She

had been shot down at her accustomed trysting-place with her lover,

in the dusk, and under deep shadow of the trees, in the darkness of

late evening. What stranger could guess she would be there? What

stranger could know so well where and how she would stand as to be

able to fire three following shots, through the shadows of falling

night, with such deadly aim as to take effect within an inch of each

other on the poor girl's temple?

I abandoned the idea of a murder for the sake of robbery. It was

untenable. I scouted the theory suggested by Charles Jex, and

persevered in by him with curious insistence, that the murderers were

the bicyclists whom he had seen in the bar at the Lion. The murderer

was an inmate of Jex Farm; of that there could be no manner of doubt;

the evidence of the footprints was proof enough for that.

Who, then, was the murderer?

Before I answer that question, I put in another document, a very

important piece of evidence. It is the report--the very concise and

careful report--of one of the most conscientious, painstaking and

intelligent provincial officers I have ever had the pleasure of doing

business with, Sergeant Edwardes, of the Surrey Constabulary.

The Inspector took up the bundle, selected one paper and gave me to

read--_Sergeant Edwardes's Report on the footprints near the spot

where the body of Miss Judson was found at_ 9:35 P.M. _of October_

17, 189--. It ran as follows:

"I have counted 43 distinct human footsteps and 54 partial imprints.

Of the 43, 24 are made by the left foot and only 19 by the right. Of

the 54 faint or partial impressions I found 17 of the left foot and

only 12 of the right, the rest are not distinctive enough to

pronounce upon.

"Of the total number of the fainter footprints 18 are deeply marked

in the soft clay, and others are less strongly impressed. Of the 18

that are deeply marked, 11 are made by the left foot, 7 by the right.

"This accords with what I was told subsequently--that Mr. Jex's three

laborers, and Mr. Jex himself, on finding Miss Judson's body, at once

took it up in their arms and bore it to the house.

"Bearers of a heavy weight, such as a dead body, walking together,

invariably bear heavily upon the left foot, both those who are

supporting it on the left and those who are supporting it on the

right side.

"Distinguishing the bootprints by their length, breadth, and the

pattern of the nail-marks upon them, I find that they are the

footprints of five separate persons, all of them men. I also found,

clearly impressed, the footprints of a sixth person, a woman, namely,

those of the victim herself.

"There had been heavy rain in the morning of the 17th, and the soil

is a sticky clay. I examined the marks at daybreak on the morning of

the 18th, and, as it had not rained during the night, the impressions

were as fresh as if they had just been made. By my orders no one had

been allowed to come near the spot where the body was found during

the night. Just inside the gate of the orchard the grass has been

long ago trodden away by passers-by, leaving the earth bare; and this

patch of bare earth forms an area rather broader than the gate. On

this area the body had fallen, and round about the spot where it had

lain, I found all the footprints on which I am reporting.

"I have compared the boots worn by the laborers with the impressions

near the gate. They correspond in every particular.

"In the case of the footprints of the three laborers a majority of

the deeper impressions are made by the left boot.

"I therefore conclude that all three men came upon the spot only to

carry away the body of the girl, and hold no hand in her death. I

argue the same from the footprints made by Mr. Jex. He also had

borne more heavily with the left than with the right foot. He also,

therefore, must have come on the spot only to bear off the body, and

could have taken no part in the girl's murder.

"There are almost an exactly equal number of impressions, plain or

faint, of the footprints of these four persons.

"There remain the footprints of a fifth person. They are the

impressions of a man's foot, but the hobnailed boots that made them,

though full-sized, are of a rather lighter make than the others, and

the nail-marks are smaller, the boots are newer, for the sides of the

impressions have a cleaner cut, and, what is important, the

impressions _of the left foot are in no case deeper than those of the

right_.

"This person, therefore, clearly did not assist in carrying the body.

The person who left these footprints is, in my opinion, the man who,

on the night of the 17th of October last, murdered Miss Mary Judson."

CHAPTER IV

MORE FACTS IN THE CASE

The conclusion, so clearly and so logically arrived at by Inspector

Edwardes, at once narrowed the field of investigation. My own

inquiries bring out a still more startling discovery. The footprints

alleged by Sergeant Edwardes to be those of the murderer--the almost

self-convicted murderer--correspond in length and breadth, and in the

number of nail-marks, twelve in the print of the left foot, ten

(there being two gaps) in that of the right, with a pair of boots in

the possession of Mr. Charles Jex.

I did not, however, allow this very damning fact to press too heavily

against Charles Jex. It is absolutely necessary in inquiries of this

very grave character to proceed with caution and deliberation.

Another man might have worn the boots with intent to deception on the

night of the murder. A murderer, rising the devilish cunning of one

who seeks to compass the death of a fellow-being without risk of

detection, frequently employs such wily precautions as this.

I must first of all seek for a possible criminal among the inmates of

the house. There was Miss Lewsome--but it could not have been Miss

Lewsome, for, first, there was the direct evidence of old Mrs. Jex

that the young lady had not left her side, in the sitting-room, from

sundown till after the body was found. There is the almost stronger

indirect, undesigned, and internal evidence of Miss Lewsome's diary,

with the entry of this very date calmly and fully set out at the very

time the murder must have been committed.

Then, again, there are the two maids, to all seeming well-behaved,

innocent, rustic girls. It could be neither of them, for their

presence in the kitchen the whole evening was vouched for by the

evidence of the other servants. The same applied to the three farm

laborers. Not one of the servants, male or female, had left the

kitchen or scullery that night. From sundown to supper-time is the

hour of rest and recreation at a farm, and the day generally ends in

talk and laughter. The whole five of them had been enjoying

themselves noisily round the kitchen fire. Their loud talk and the

blustering wind that roared about the farm chimneys on this

tempestuous evening had, doubtless, prevented any one of them from

hearing the three revolver shots on the night of the murder.

There remains Mr. Jex. Let us impartially examine the acts that

throw suspicion upon him. Here is a man who clearly no longer loves,

probably never did love, the girl whom he is about to marry for her

money; who certainly does care for another woman; who has entangled

himself in an intrigue with this second woman, which he may

reasonably expect to come to light at any moment and endanger his

prospects of a rich marriage. Here is a man who, by the impartial

evidence of that woman's diary, has indulged in vague threats against

the murdered girl. He is the only person who could benefit by her

death, and would enjoy a welcome and immediate relief, by this event,

from impending bankruptcy.

On the other hand, Mr. Jex, at the moment of the crime's commission,

represented himself to have been at Bexton, or on the homeward road;

but we have, of course, no exact knowledge of the hour at which Mary

Judson met with her death. It clearly took place a little time

before or a little after half past six o'clock. It might be, for all

we know, a good half hour later than Mr. Jex's return to the farm.

We know nothing of Mr. Jex's movements from the time of his coming

home till his entry, at nine o'clock, into the sitting-room where his

mother and Miss Lewsome were awaiting him. No servant opened the

door for him; he let himself in. No one saw or heard him enter.

What was he doing, during all the time that elapsed between his

coming home and the discovery of the murder? By his own statement

there was an hour and a half to be accounted for. He says he was

taking off his wet things and putting on dry ones, lounging about in

his bedroom, resting. It may be so, but the time so occupied seems

unnecessarily long.

Charles Jex had shown himself, in his talk with me, not a little of a

fool, as well as (assuming his guilt) a brutal and cruel murderer.

It was the very extremity of his stupidity, indeed, that almost

inclined me to hope him innocent. It was almost unthinkable that

such a shrewd fellow as Jex had the character of being in the

countryside--keen at a bargain, quick at a joke, a hearty, jovial

companion at board and bar, knowing and clever in all the signs of

coming change in weather and market--should have proved so clumsy and

stupid in this deadly affair; leaving traces enough and supplying

motives enough to hang a dozen men. Of all men, one would suppose

that a man of the fields and a sportsman, used to the marks and

tracking of game, would be careful how he left the imprint of his

footsteps on the soft clay. Why, that evidence alone, with time

fitting and motive thrown in, was enough to bring him to the gallows!

As if this was not enough, further most damning evidence was

presently forthcoming.

I will trace out for you, step by step, the history of the murder, on

the assumption that Jex was the actual murderer. As to motive I have

said enough. No one but Jex had a pecuniary motive for the murder of

the girl, whom he certainly did not love. The evidence of the

footprints was very strong, but I have said enough of them. To touch

upon the immediate cause of the girl's death, there were three small

bullets found in the brain, I have already told you that these

bullets were not of the conical kind usually found in revolver

cartridges. They were round, and of the size that is used in the

dangerous toys known as drawing-room pistols, During one of Jex's

absences on the farm, I had carefully overhauled the saddle-room,

where the young farmer kept his guns and ammunition. I found all his

guns, cartridge-fillers, wads, shots of different sizes, arranged

with the neat order that a good sportsman uses. The guns, carefully

cleaned and oiled, were slung on the wall. Two were of the ordinary

kind--twelve-inch bore and double-barreled. A third was a heavy,

single-barreled, percussion-action duck gun, no doubt meant for use

in the neighboring marsh. Half a dozen old-fashioned shot pouches

hung along the wall, full, or half full, of shot.

These receptacles, as every one knows, were formerly employed for

muzzle-loaders, when men put in, first, the powder, then the wadding,

then the shot, with a second wad over that, and finally a percussion

cap on the lock nipple. One of these old-fashioned pouches caught my

eye. It was of a larger size than the others. I took it from the

wall, held it mouth downward over my left hand, and pressed the

spring which releases a charge of shot. No shot fell into my hand,

but three slugs of the size of small pistol bullets, I snapped the

spring again, and three slugs again fell out, I repeated the

experiment again and again, every time with the same result. The

brass measure, meant to hold an ordinary charge of shot that would

weigh about one ounce, held just three of the slugs, neither more nor

less, every time it was opened and shut. It was a revelation, for

the slugs were identical in size and weight with those found in the

brain of the unfortunate girl! The obvious conclusion was that the

murderer had loaded his gun from this leather pouch.

There was another corollary to be drawn. The theory of three shots

from a revolver was no longer tenable; it seemed clear that the fatal

shot had been fired at one discharge, and from a gun. It was also

certain, from other evidence, that the person who fired the shot had

been one well acquainted with firearms and their use. He would have

been anxious that the discharge of his gun should make as little

noise as possible. A man, knowing in gun-firing, knows that, to do

that, he must use a minimum of powder, with a soft paper wadding in

place of the usual tightly fitting circular wad. So fired, the

report of a gun is little louder than the clap of a man's two hands

when he holds them half-curved. It was in evidence that the bullets

had made but little penetration, only just enough to kill, and that

therefore the charge was light. It is true that no such paper

wadding as I believed had been employed to muffle the sound of the

discharge had been found near the scene of the murder. There were

further conclusions still to be drawn. The gun was heavy and

unhandy. It could hardly have been used but by a strongish man, A

further conclusion still was this, that for the three bullets in the

charge not to scatter in their trajectory, the gun must have been

held close to the girl's head.

It was well, though not absolutely indispensable, in order to bring

home the perpetration of the crime to Jex, and in order to show that

it was the deed of an expert--in order to show that his story of his

hearing the three shots was a lie, invented to find a reason for the

gun report, fired so close to the house, having been unheard by its

inmates--it was well, I say, to show that the noise had actually been

deadened by the use of soft paper wadding.

I walked straight to the orchard gate I placed myself where the

murderer must have stood, within two or three yards of it; he must

have fired point-blank at the girl, suddenly and quickly, in the half

dark, before she would have had time to move. She had, probably,

with her hands resting on the top rail, stood waiting for her lover.

The paper wadding would have flown out from the gun barrel, at an

angle, more of less acute, to the line of fire, right or left of it,

some four or five yards from the muzzle of the gun, and would have

fallen, and must now be lying hidden in the grass across the gate, on

one side or the other of the orchard path.

I searched the long wisps of grass, and, in two or three minutes, had

the satisfaction of finding, half hidden among them, first one, and

then a second piece of crumpled paper charred and blackened with

gunpowder. Inspector Edwardes had overlooked this important piece of

evidence. By the time I had spread the papers out upon a board,

there was little left of them but a damp film, but enough was left of

their original appearance to show that they were pieces of the county

paper, taken in regularity by Mr. Jex.

The man who fired that shot therefore was a proved expert. He was

one who had strong reason for not wishing the shot to be heard; and,

with half a charge of powder, a light load of shot, and loose paper

wadding, he had taken the very best means to effect this purpose.

Who in the household was thus expert in firearms? Who, alone, could

have known of the existence of the bullet in the saddle-room?

Clearly, no one but Charles Jex. He had loaded the gun, too, with

paper obtainable in his own house.

I had now more than evidence enough to justify Jex's arrest for the

murder of Mary Judson, but I was willing to accumulate still more. I

therefore contented myself with obtaining a warrant for his arrest

from the magistrates at Bilford, the nearest large town, and prepared

to execute it the moment circumstances should make it expedient. Jex

had, for some time, shown himself to be uneasy. He shunned me; it

was clear he suspected me of having got upon the trail of the crime.

I became anxious lest he should think the game was up, and try to

escape from justice. I wired for two officers, and instructed them

to watch the farm by night, and lay hands on the farmer if he should

attempt to break away in the darkness. By day I could keep my own

eye upon him. I did not let him get far out of my sight, but,

careful as I was, he showed signs of knowing he was watched.

On the morning of the 22d of October--it was my third day on this

job--he came down early, dressed rather more smartly than usual, and,

before breakfast, he went round to the stables. I affected not to

have observed this suspicious movement, and, in the course of the

morning, I accepted Miss Lewsome's invitation to accompany her on a

walk to Bexton. We both went to make ready. Jex left the room at

the same moment. He went toward the stables; I was watching him from

my bedroom window. I ran downstairs, prepared for what was coming,

and, making my way quickly into the road, stood behind the tall,

quickset hedge.

Presently I heard the hurried steps of the groom in the avenue; in a

moment more he had opened the gate wide, and as he did so, the

dog-cart appeared with Jex driving his gray mare very fast. He

called to his servant to look sharp, and hardly stopped the trap for

the man to climb up behind. I moved quickly in front of the mare.

"Hulloa, Mr. Jex, you're in a hurry this morning!"

"Yes, confound you, I am; get out of my way, please, or we shall do

you a mischief," and he whipped up the mare and tried to drive past

me.

"Easy! easy! if you please." I took hold of the reins and kept a

firm hold.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

"Going to catch a train, Mr. Jex?" He hesitated.

"You're in good time for the 12:10 up, you know. Going to town,

perhaps?"

"N--no--I'm not. Going to meet a friend at Lingham Junction, that's

all."

"Will you take me with you, Mr. Jex?"

"No room, Inspector. My friend and his things, and my fellow will

take all there is to spare."

"Oh, leave Sam behind. I can hold your mare at the station, you

know." He muttered an oath stupidly, but there was no way for him

out of the scrape.

"Jump up, then," he said sulkily. "Sam," he called to his man, "you

can go back to your horses."

I sat by his side in the cart, and we drove at a fair pace to the

station without half a dozen words passing between us.

No doubt he was thinking the matter out; so was I. I knew just what

was passing in his thick head. He was devising how he might slip

into the train while I stood outside, holding the horse. He forgot

the telegraph. Dealing with these rustic criminals and their simple

ways, is bad practice for us London officers, who have to set our

wits, in town, against some of the sharpest rogues in creation. I

thought, as I sat by Charles Jex, of my old friend Towers, _alias_

Ikey Coggins, and I laughed to myself as I compared the one criminal

with the other. We got in good time to the station. The up-train

signal only went up as we drove to the gate.

"Now, Mr. Jex, you'll be wanting to meet your friend; shall I walk

the mare about?"

"Please to do so, Mr. Morgan," said Jex. "You might take her two

hundred yards, or so, up the road. Keep her behind that outhouse,

where she can't see the train passing, will you? when it comes in.

The mare is a bit nervous."

I laughed in my sleeve at the fellow's shallowness.

"All right, give me the ribbons. Hulloa, you've got a bag!"

"Only a parcel for the up-train."

"Oh, I see; only a parcel for the up-train. Look sharp, then, and

get it booked while there's time."

I looked up and down the line; the train was not yet in sight; there

was no need for hurry. I turned the mare round and drove her slowly

toward the building Jex had pointed to. saw him watch us from the

station gateway before he went in. As he disappeared I beckoned to a

boy standing by.

"Here's a shilling job, my lad! Just you walk the mare up to that

outhouse, and keep her there out of sight of the train till I come

back."

Then I slipped into the station, and, keeping out of sight, saw, as I

fully expected I should, Jex taking his ticket.

I waited till the train was in, and as the young farmer, bag in hand,

stepped on to the footboard of a second-class carriage, I walked up

to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder.

"Charles Jex," I said, speaking loud and clear, for him and the

others around to make no mistake about it. "I arrest, you for the

murder, on the 17th instant, of Miss Mary Judson!"

There was a crowd of ten to fifteen porters, guards, farmers, and

others round us in a minute. Jex just swore once. Most criminals

that I have taken this way lose their pluck and turn pale, but Jex

behaved differently. It was clear that my move had not taken him by

surprise.

"I expected as much," he said. He looked round at the people on the

platform--his friends to a man, for the young farmer was popular in

the neighborhood. "Half a minute more," said he, under his breath,

"and I'd have done it."

I slipped one of a pair of handcuffs over his wrist--and clicked the

catch, leaping fast hold of the other iron.

"Anyhow, the game's up now," I said.

"You're right, Inspector, the game's up now, sure enough."

The crowd of his friends became rather obstreperous. I called on the

station-master and his guards to stand by me, telling him and the

people about who I was.

There was a bit of a hustle, and rough talk and threats, and I tried

to get the other handcuff on, but my prisoner and I were being pushed

about in spite of what the station people did to help us, and I

should not have managed it but for Jex himself. He held his free

hand out alongside of the manacled one. "Oh, damn it, Morgan, if

that's what you want, get done with it, and let's be off out of this."

I put the second handcuff on and clicked the lock.

The sight angered his friends, the farmers standing about, and one of

them shouted:

"Now, then, boys, one more rush to goal and we score!"

"Hold on, gentlemen, if you please," I cried. "I warn you, in the

King's name! This is my lawful prisoner; I'm an Inspector of Police

and I hold a warrant for the arrest of the body of Charles Jex, for

murder."

They held back at this for a moment, and I hurried my prisoner

through the station entrance, and the porters, guards, and

station-master closed round and shut the gate in the faces of the

crowd. I never yet knew a man take it so coolly as Jex. When we got

to the dog-cart, he said:

"I guess you'll have to drive yourself, Mr. Inspector. With these

damned things on my wrists, I can't."

We got in, and I took the reins and drove off fast.

We had traveled some half a mile from the station, and Jex had not

opened his lips. I said:

"So you were going to town, were you, Mr. Jex?"

"Mr. Inspector," he said quietly, "haven't you forgotten to caution

your prisoner before you ask him any questions? Isn't that the law?"

He had me there, sure enough.

"I warn you," I said, coming in with it rather late, I must admit,

"that any statement you make may be used against you on trial."

"That's just what I had in my mind, Inspector," said Jex, and he

never uttered another word till we neared the farm.

Just as we sighted the farm buildings, I made out on the road, in the

distance, a woman's figure. It was Miss Lewsome. She stood in the

middle of the road, and I should have driven over her if I had not

pulled up.

"What is this, Mr. Morgan?" she cried as we drove up. "Why is it you

who are driving? Tell me--tell me quick."

"You'll know soon enough, Miss Lewsome. Stand aside, if you please."

"Oh! what is it? Charles, speak, for God's sake, speak!"

Jex had kept his hands under the apron; he did not say a word, but

presently he held out his two wrists, manacled together, for the girl

to see. She gave a loud scream.

"O God! you have arrested him, Mr. Morgan! No, no, you can't--you--"

As she was speaking a faintness came over her; she turned from red to

very pale, muttering incoherent words which we could not catch, and

staggered back against a road gate. But for the bar of the gate to

which she clung, she would have fallen. "Help her," said Jex. "Get

down and help the girl. You know I can't."

"It's all right, she'll get over it. We'll let her be, and send the

women to her presently," and I drove the cart the forty or fifty

yards that took us into the stable-yard.

It had been my intention to lodge my prisoner, after dark, that

evening, in the keeping of the county police, but events were to

happen before nightfall that put a quite different face upon the

whole case. As soon as I had given the young farmer into my men's

charge, with orders that one or the other was to be with him till we

should give him over to the police at Bilford, I called to two of the

women of the farm, and went with them to the help of Miss Lewsome.

We found her lying by the roadside, in a dead faint. A farmer's

wife--a passer-by--was kneeling by her side, and trying to recall her

to her senses.

"Poor thing!" she was saying. "It's only a bit of a swound. She'll

come to, if we wait a little."

In two or three minutes Miss Lewsome opened her eyes, and presently

stood up, and, with our help, she walked to the house. She said

nothing, in her seemingly bewildered condition, of what had happened,

and presently afterward she was induced to lie down in her bedroom,

and, for the time, I saw no more of her.

In little more than an hour, however, I had a message from her

through one of the farm girls. She desired to see me at once, and

alone.

I found her sitting up in an armchair, pale and excited in looks,

but, at first, she did not speak. I drew a chair near hers and sat

down. She did not notice the few phrases of condolence I tittered.

Suddenly she spoke, and I could judge what she must have felt by the

strained tones of her voice.

"He is innocent, Mr. Morgan."

I said nothing. Poor girl! My heart bled for her.

"Innocent, I tell you! Innocent, and you must release him at once!"

"You must not excite yourself about this matter, Miss Lewsome. It is

not a thing for a young lady to meddle with."

"Yes, but I must meddle with it! I must, I must!"

She raised her voice to a scream.

"Yes, yes, my poor girl, I know how shamefully you have been treated."

"I, shamefully treated? No, no! He has treated me so well. No one

could be so good and loyal as he has been."

"Your diary, Miss Lewsome?"

"Lies, all lies, all wicked, cowardly lies, to save myself and hurt

him. Yes, to hurt the only man I ever loved. Oh, I am a devil, a

malignant, hateful devil! No woman, since the world began, ever

schemed so hellish a thing as I schemed."

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

What should I do? I was wasting my time in listening to the raving

of a love-sick, hysterical girl. I rose to leave her.

"You are doing your health no good, dear Miss Lewsome. You must see

the doctor, not me; he shall give you a sleeping-draught, and you

will be all right again in the morning."

"By the morning you will have gone away, and you will have taken

Charles with you to disgrace, perhaps to death. No, they can't, they

can't! The law can't convict him, can it?"

"It is not for me to say. The evidence is very strong."

"Very strong? But there is not a particle of evidence! There can be

none!"

"If that man did not murder Mary Judson," said I, getting impatient

with her hysterical nonsense, "who did?"

She did not answer for a space of time in which I could have counted

twenty, slowly; but she kept her eyes on me with a look in them that

almost frightened me.

"I did!" she cried out, at last.

"Ah no! young lady, I see what you're driving at, but it won't do.

No, Miss Lewsome, it's a forgivable thing, your saying this to save

your friend, but I tell you it won't do."

"I murdered Mary Judson!" I shook my head and smiled,

"I tell you, I shot Mary Judson on Wednesday night, did it because I

was a jealous, malignant devil, and hated her, and hated him."

"Quite impossible. You never left Mrs. Jex's side all the evening,

from before sundown till supper-time. It's in evidence."

"She says so--she believes I did not. She dozes for an hour every

evening, and does not even know that she does. I went from the room.

I slipped out the moment she dozed off, and came back before she

woke. Oh, I had plenty of time."

"But your footprints were not there, and Jex's were."

"I put on his boots over my own. I had often done it, in fun. I did

it that day in earnest."

"Did you want to hang him?"

"I did. I hated him so--then."

"Why, in your diary you say you loved him!"

"I did; oh, I do now! But then, when she was alive, I hated them

both--her and him. But you can't understand. Men can't understand

women. I was mad."

"You are mad now, Miss Lewsome, if you think to save your lover by

telling me these falsehoods--for you know they are falsehoods. Mind,

I don't blame you for saying what you are saying, but don't expect

me, or any one, to believe you."

"I shot Mary Judson in the dusk, at the gate, with his gun! I put

three little balls in it that I took from a shot-pouch in the

saddle-room."

"You couldn't load the double-barrel with powder and balls, without a

cartridge, and none was used."

I thought to catch her tripping in her invention here.

"I did not use the double-barrel. I used the single-barrel. I

loaded it as I had seen Charles load it. I put a bit of paper over

the powder, and another over the bullets, and rammed them down as I

have seen Charles do, and I put a cap on as he had shown me how."

"Come now, that gun with a full charge would have knocked you down."

"I know it would, but I put in only half a charge."

"Stop a bit now, Miss Lewsome, and I will catch you out. I have

found the paper wadding in the grass. What sort of paper was it you

put in--brown paper?"

"No, a bit of newspaper; the county paper. I tore off a bit of the

_Surrey Times_." The thing was beginning to puzzle me.

"Another question, Miss Lewsome. You say Mr. Jex is an innocent man.

Then why does he attempt to run away? He tried this very day to

throw dust in my eyes and go by the express to London."

"I guessed he would, and that is why I wished to get you out of his

way this morning."

"Had you told Mr. Jex, then, what you tell me now?"

"No, but he suspects me--oh, I am sure he knows it is I who have done

this dreadful thing!"

"If he knows that you are the real murderer and himself innocent, why

did he try to escape? You see your story won't hang together, Miss

Lewsome."

"Mr. Jex tried to escape, I tell you, to save me."

"But why should he put his own neck in the halter to save a guilty

woman---if guilty you are?"

"Because he loves me. He would be suspected, not I."

She was certainly in one story about it all.

"Yes, he loves me so that he has run this great risk to save me from

being found out and hanged."

"He told you this?"

"No, he has told me nothing, nor have I told him anything; but these

last days I have guessed, by his face, that he knows. I have seen it

in his eyes. Oh, he loathes and despises me now!" I said nothing

for a few moments.

"Now, Miss Lewsome, I will ask you once more deliberately and, mind

you, your story will be sifted to the utmost, and what you say now

may be used against yourself in court. You tell me you shot Miss

Mary Judson after sundown on the night of the 17th of October?"

"I did."

"You used Mr. Jex's gun, and you charged it yourself?"

"Yes."

"You wore Mr. Jex's boots when you went out in the dark to kill your

dearest friend, and you committed this black crime in order to throw

suspicion upon Mr. Jex, who was your lover?"

"Yes. Oh, I was quite mad! I can't understand it. But there was

only hatred and bitterness in my heart, and I saw nothing but

blood--there was blood in my eyes."

"And what was your object? What did you think would come of it?"

"Nothing, only I hated her so. I was too miserable, because the time

was coming near when he would marry her and I be left alone."

"But, according to your first story, you were writing your diary, if

not at the time of the murder, at least immediately after it was

done. Do you wish me to believe that a murderess, hot-handed, can

sit down and write long entries in a diary?"

"It was a lie I told to take you in. I wrote that entry in the

diary--all those lies, to throw dust in your eyes--in the forenoon."

"You expected nothing, then, from the murder?"

"I think I expected that perhaps Charles would inherit her money and

be able to marry me, when it had all blown over."

"But why did you say, just now, that you hated him, and had committed

this cruel crime to spite him? You must have guessed that you would

bring him in peril of his life."

"Ah, you don't understand women. Women understand women; men never

do. I tell you I felt a devil. Why did he want to make her his wife

and leave me in the cold? Oh, I hated him for that; I should never

have killed her if I had not so hated him."

"Surely you could not have expected him to marry a woman who had

committed a murder?"

"I never thought he would guess. I never thought of all these

discoveries. No one would have known, if you had not taken him up."

"But you brought that about by wearing his boots, and firing with his

gun and his ammunition."

"Ah, yes, there is the pity. I did not reason; I wanted to punish

him for his jilting of me. He would be in my power. Oh, I did not

reason. I only felt a vindictive devil. Have no mercy on me; I

deserve everything. I hate myself!"

I got up. "We will talk of this again to-morrow," I said, "when you

are calmer."

"Yes," she said quietly, "when I am calmer."

"You will let me send for the doctor?"

"Why?"

"To give you a sleeping-draught."

"Yes, send for him; but you won't tell Mrs. Jex. She is old and

feeble."

"No, I will tell her nothing to-night, at any rate--nothing of what

has happened. She need not even know that her son has been arrested.

He will not go from here to-night."

"Can you manage that?"

"Yes, I can manage that."

The farm servants, of course, knew that their master was in custody.

I told them they were to keep it from the old lady. I sent one of

them for the doctor, and when he came I bade him give a strong

sleeping-draught to Miss Lewsome.

I went into Jex's bedroom. He was lying on the bed, with the

handcuffs on his wrists. My two men were with him. I motioned them

to leave me.

I took out my key, unfastened the irons and removed them.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I've some fresh evidence, that is all."

"Am I no longer under arrest, then?"

"Please to consider yourself in custody for the present. I have said

nothing to your mother about all this. She knows nothing. Isn't

that better so?"

"Much better. I'll come down to supper, to keep it up."

"I was going to ask you to."

"How is Miss Lewsome?"

"Very excited and disturbed. I've sent for the doctor to give her a

sleeping-draught. Miss Lewsome has made a communication to me."

"Ay, ay." He showed no further curiosity in the matter.

The doctor came, gave Miss Lewsome a pretty strong dose of chloral,

and departed, having learned nothing, by my express orders to the

servants, of what had taken place that day at Jex Farm. One of my

men remained that night in Mr. Jex's bedroom, and the other had

orders to watch the house from the outside.

Miss Lewsome's absence was easily accounted for to Mrs. Jex, who was

too old and feeble to be easily roused to curiosity, by a story of a

chill and a headache that had obliged her guest to keep to her

bedroom.

The hours after breakfast, next morning, passed slowly. No fresh

developments of any kind occurred. Jex asked no questions, and I did

not care to speak to him.

I waited for Hiss Lewsome's awakening and deliberated as to my next

step. Was her confession to be seriously acted upon? It had shaken

me, but not quite convinced me, curiously supported though it was by

a whole chain of circumstantial evidence. Was I bound to arrest this

evidently hysterical girl, on the strength of a story which might,

after all, be nothing but a tissue of cunning lies to save her lover?

I have not often been so puzzled. I have not often found the facts

and probabilities, for and against, so equally poised in the balance.

Midday came and there had been no sign, or sound, of stirring in Miss

Lewsome's bedroom. I sent in one of the servants and waited outside.

Presently the maid screamed and ran out of the room, pale and

speechless.

"What is it?" I asked, rather fearful myself. "What's up now, my

girl?"

"Go to her, sir; go in to her quick! Oh, I don't know--I can't tell,

but I'm afraid it's-- Her hands are cold, stone cold, and her face

is set. I can't waken her!"

She was dead--had been dead for hours--and on the dressing-table,

propped against the pincushion, was a closed letter addressed to

myself. I opened it, and read what follows:

"I, Maud Lewsome, make this dying confession. I, of my own will, no

one knowing, no one advising, no one helping me, shot my friend, Mary

Judson, at the orchard gate of Jex Farm. I had put on Mr. Jex's

boots over my shoes in order that the crime might be shifted from my

shoulders to his. I shot her across the orchard gate, in the dark,

just at nightfall, when she could not see me. She was waiting for

him. Perhaps I could not have done it, though I had resolved I

would, but that as I came up, she said, 'Is that you, dearest?' Then

I raised the gun and fired--seeing her only in outline against the

little light still in the evening sky. She fell at once on the place

where she stood and made no cry or groan.

"The gun gave no report hardly, but I was afraid they might somehow

guess indoors it was me, and I waited a long time, not daring to go

in. Presently the gate from the road was opened. I knew it was

Charles Jex coming from Bexton to her, and I was glad then that I had

done it. I thought he would see me if I ran into the house, so I

opened the orchard gate very softly and crouched down beside Mary's

dead body. He came up to the gate and called 'Mary' twice, but he

could see nothing and went away. Then I felt quite hard and callous,

but my mind was very clear and active, and I thought I would take her

watch, so that people might think she had been robbed. I took it and

her chain, and, coming into the garden again, I buried them with my

hands, two or three inches deep, in the flower-border, near the porch

and smoothed the mould down over it. Then I was afraid he would hear

me in the passage, and I took off the thick boots and carried them in

my hand. I could hear him in his bedroom overhead, and I took the

gun to the saddle-room and the boots I rubbed dry with a cloth and

laid them in a row with the others. Then I felt I must see him, and

I went up very lightly and knocked at his door and he came out in his

shirt-sleeves and said, in a whisper, 'How pale you are, Maud,' and

he kissed me, and I kept my hands behind me lest he should see the

garden mould on them, but he did not notice that, and he said again:

"'How pale you look to-night! Have you seen a ghost?'

"And I ran back first to my room and washed my hands and looked at

myself in the glass and thought, This is not the reflection of Maud

Lewsome! This, is the reflection of a murderess! And in my ears

there is always the report of the gun as I fired it at Mary Judson,

and in my nostrils the smell of the gunpowder smoke, and since then I

have heard and smelt these two things day and night; but Mary's face,

when I killed her, I did not see, and I am glad I did not. The

doctor has given me chloral, and, presently, I shall take another

double dose from a bottle of it I have, and before morning I shall be

dead, for I cannot live after this thing that I have done. I thought

I could forget it, but I cannot, and I must die. I tell the exact

truth now in the hope that God may listen to my confession and my

repentance, and forgive me for the awful wickedness that I have

committed. I shot her with Charles's large gun; I had watched him

loading it often, and I did as he did, and I put three little bullets

in it that I took from the shot pouch that hangs third in the row on

the wall."

The first thing I did after reading this was to call one of my men

and bid him turn over the soil in the flower border close to the

porch. He did so, and in my presence he found Mary Judson's watch

and chain. Taking it in my hands, I carried it to Jex.

"We have found this, Mr. Jex."

"Where?"

I told him. He nodded, but said nothing.

"Will you, please, read this paper, Mr. Jex?" and I handed him that

on which Miss Lewsome had written her confession. He read the first

few lines and started up.

"Good God! Has she--?" I nodded.

"She took her own life last night."

He sank down on a chair and covered his face with his hands, but his

emotion lasted for a moment only.

"Poor girl!" he said sadly, "I expected it,"

"Then you knew she had done the murder?"

He made no answer, but read calmly through the confession he held in

his hand, then he gave it back without comment.

"After this, Mr. Jex, you are, of course, at liberty. I have only to

apologize to you for the inconvenience I have put you to, but the

evidence against you was strong, you must admit."

"You could not do otherwise, Inspector Morgan, than you have done,"

and he held out his right hand to me.

I made some pretence of not seeing his action. I did not take

Charles Jex by the hand.

Except for certain formalities that I need not give you, there is no

more to interest you in the case. I need only add that with such

evidence before us as Miss Lewsome's confession, it was, of course,

impossible to charge Jex with any part in this murder; but,

remembering all the circumstances since, I have sometimes asked

myself, Was the girl alone guilty, was she a tool in the hands of a

scheming villain, or was she perhaps only a victim and entirely

innocent? Women are, to us men, often quite unaccountable beings.

The Border

BY HENRY C. ROWLAND

"It is all very interesting," said Jones, "but a bit unsatisfying."