Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries | Page 6

did even more," he said. "That assassin
not only climbed the face of that precipice and got in through the
closed window, but he shot Doomdorf to death and got out again
through the closed window without leaving a single track or trace
behind, and without disturbing a grain of dust or a thread of a cobweb."

Randolph swore a great oath.
"The thing is impossible!" he cried. "Men are not killed today in
Virginia by black art or a curse of God."
"By black art, no," replied Abner; "but by the curse of God, yes. I think
they are."
Randolph drove his clenched right hand into the palm of his left. "By
the eternal!" he cried. "I would like to see the assassin who could do a
murder like this, whether he be an imp from the pit or an angel out of
Heaven."
"Very well," replied Abner, undisturbed. "When he comes back
tomorrow I will show you the assassin who killed Doomdorf."
When day broke they dug a grave and buried the dead man against the
mountain among his peach trees. It was noon when that work was
ended. Abner threw down his spade and looked up at the sun.
"Randolph," he said, "let us go and lay an ambush for this assassin. He
is on the way here."
And it was a strange ambush that he laid. When they were come again
into the chamber where Doomdorf died he bolted the door; then he
loaded the fowling piece and put it carefully back on its rack against the
wall. After that he did another curious thing: He took the blood-stained
coat, which they had stripped off the dead man when they had prepared
his body for the earth, put a pillow in it and laid it on the couch
precisely where Doomdorf had slept. And while he did these things
Randolph stood in wonder and Abner talked:
"Look you, Randolph...We will trick the murderer...We will catch him
in the act."
Then he went over and took the puzzled justice by the arm.
"Watch!" he said. "The assassin is coming along the wall!"

But Randolph heard nothing, saw nothing. Only the sun entered.
Abner's hand tightened on his arm.
"It is here! Look!" And he pointed to the wall.
Randolph, following the extended finger, saw a tiny brilliant disk of
light moving slowly up the wall toward the lock of the fowling piece.
Abner's hand became a vise and his voice rang as over metal.
"'He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.' It is the
water bottle, full of Doomdorf's liquid, focusing the sun...And look,
Randolph, how Bronson's prayer was answered!"
The tiny disk of light traveled on the plate of the lock.
"It is fire from heaven!"
The words rang above the roar of the fowling piece, and Randolph saw
the dead man's coat leap up on the couch, riddled by the shot. The gun,
in its natural position on the rack, pointed to the couch standing at the
end of the chamber, beyond the offset of the wall, and the focused sun
had exploded the percussion cap.
Randolph made a great gesture, with his arm extended.
"It is a world," he said, "filled with the mysterious joinder of accident!"
"It is a world," replied Abner, "filled with the mysterious justice of
God!"
Chapter 2
The Wrong Hand
ABNER NEVER WOULD have taken me into that house if he could
have helped it. He was on a desperate mission and a child was the last
company he wished; but he had to do it. It was an evening of early
winter-raw and cold. A chilling rain was beginning to fall; night was

descending and I could not go on. I had been into the upcountry and
had taken this short cut through the hills that lay here against the
mountains. I would have been home by now, but a broken shoe had
delayed me.
I did not see Abner's horse until I approached the crossroads, but I think
he had seen me from a distance. His great chestnut stood in the
grassplot between the roads, and Abner sat upon him like a man of
stone. He had made his decision when I got to him.
The very aspect of the land was sinister. The house stood on a hill;
round its base, through the sodded meadows, the river ran-dark, swift
and silent; stretching westward was a forest and for background the
great mountains stood into the sky. The house was very old. The high
windows were of little panes of glass and on the ancient white door the
paint was seamed and cracked with age.
The name of the man who lived here was a byword in the hills. He was
a hunchback, who sat