The Uttermost Farthing | Page 7

And the sight of those signs-manual of iniquity had an
immediate effect on me; they converted the unknown perpetrator of this
horror from a mere abstraction of disaster into a real, living person.
With a sudden flush of hate and loathing, I realized that this wretch was
even now walking the streets or lurking in his accursed den; and I
realized, too, that these marks were, perhaps, the only links that
connected him with the foul deed that he had done.
"I looked over the plate quickly and selected a salver and a large,
globular teapot, on both of which the prints were very distinct. These I
placed in a drawer of the bureau, and, turning the key, dropped it into
the pocket of my pajamas. And at that moment the bell rang violently.

"I went to the door and admitted a police constable and the cook. The
latter looked at me with evident fear and horror and the constable said,
somewhat sternly:
"'This young woman tells me there's something wrong here, sir.'
"I led him into the dining-room--the cook remained at the door, peering
in with an ashen face--and showed him my wife's corpse. He took off
his helmet and asked rather gruffly how it happened. I gave him a brief
account of the catastrophe, on which he made no comment except to
remark that the inspector would be here presently.
"The inspector actually arrived within a couple of minutes,
accompanied by a sergeant, and the two officers questioned me closely.
I repeated my statement and saw at once that they did not believe me;
that they suspected me of having committed the murder myself. I noted
the fact with dull surprise but without annoyance. It didn't seem to
matter to me what they thought.
"They called the cook in and questioned her, but, of course, she knew
nothing. Then they sent her to find the housemaid. But the housemaid
had disappeared and her outdoor clothes and a large hand-bag had
disappeared too; which put a new complexion on the matter. Then the
officers examined the plate and looked at the finger-marks on it. The
constable discovered the tuft of hair in my poor wife's hand, and the
inspector having noted its color and looked rather hard at my hair, put it
for safety in a blue envelope, which he pocketed; and I suspect it never
saw the light again.
"About this time the police surgeon arrived, but there was nothing for
him to do but note the state of the body as bearing on the time at which
death took place. The police took possession of some of the plate with a
dim idea of comparing the finger-prints with the fingers of the murderer
if they should catch him.
"But they never did catch him. Not a vestige of a clue to his identity
was ever forthcoming. The housemaid was searched for but never
found. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of 'wilful murder' against

some person unknown. And that was the end of the matter. I
accompanied my dearest to the place where she was laid to rest, where
soon I shall join her. And I came back alone to the empty house.
"It is unnecessary for me to say that I did not kill myself. In the interval
I had seen things in a new light. It was evident to me from the first that
the police would never capture that villain. And yet he had to be
captured. He had incurred a debt, and that debt had to be paid.
Therefore I remained behind to collect it.
"That was twenty years ago, Wharton; twenty long, gray, solitary years.
Many a time have I longed to go to her, but the debt remained unpaid. I
have tried to make the time pass by getting my little collection together
and studying the very instructive specimens in it; and it has lightened
the burden. But all the time I have been working to collect that debt and
earn my release."
He paused awhile, and I ventured to ask: "And is the debt paid?"
"At last it is paid."
"The man was caught, then, in the end?"
"Yes. He was caught."
"And I hope," I exclaimed fervently, "that the scoundrel met with his
deserts; I mean, that he was duly executed."
"Yes," Challoner answered quietly, "he was executed."
"How did the police discover him, after all?" I asked.
"You will find," said Challoner, "a full account of the affair in the last
volume of the 'Museum Archives';" then, noting the astonishment on
my face at this amazing statement, he added: "You see, Wharton, the
'Museum Archives' are, in a sense, a personal diary; my life has been
wrapped up in the museum and I have associated all the actions of my