not know the voice, but something in the impatient rattling of the door which accompanied the words affected me in spite of myself, and I slowly opened my shop to this midnight customer.
“‘You must be hungry,’ I began. But the person who had crowded in as soon as the opening was large enough wouldn’t let me finish.
“‘Bread! I want bread, or crackers, or anything that you can find easiest,’ he gasped, like a man who had been running. ‘Here’s money’; and he poked into my hand a bill so stiff that it rattled. ‘It’s more than enough,’ he hastened to say, as I hesitated over it, ‘but never mind that; I’ll come for the change in the morning.’
“‘Who are you? I cried. ‘You are not Blind Willy, I’m sure.’
“But his only answer was ‘Bread!’ while he leaned so hard against the counter I felt it shake.
“I could not stand that cry of ‘Bread!’ so I groped about in the dark, and found him a stale loaf, which I put into his arms, with a short, ‘There! Now tell me what your name is.’
“But at this he seemed to shrink into himself; and muttering something that might pass for thanks, he stumbled towards the door and rushed hastily out. Running after him, I listened eagerly to his steps. They went up the hill.”
“And the money? What about the money?” asked the coroner. “Didn’t he come back for the change?”
“No. I put it in the till, thinking it was a dollar bill. But when I came to look at it in the morning, it was a twenty; yes, sirs, a twenty!”
This was startling. The coroner and the constable looked at each other before looking again at him.
“And where is that bill now?” asked the former. “Have you brought it with you?”
“I have, sir. It’s been in and out of the till twenty times to-day. I haven’t known what to do with it. I don’t like to think wrong of anybody, but when I heard that Mrs. Webb (God bless her!) was murdered last night for money, I couldn’t rest for the weight of this thing on my conscience. Here’s the bill, sir. I wish I had let the old man rap on my door till morning before I had taken it from him.”
They did not share this feeling. A distinct and valuable clew seemed to be afforded them by the fresh, crisp bill they saw in his hand. Silently Dr. Talbot took it, while Mr. Fenton, with a shrewd look, asked:
“What reasons have you for calling this mysterious customer old? I thought it was so dark you could not see him.”
The man, who looked relieved since he had rid himself of the bill, eyed the constable in some perplexity.
“I didn’t see a feature of his face,” said he, “and yet I’m sure he was old. I never thought of him as being anything else.”
“Well, we will see. And is that all you have to tell us?”
His nod was expressive, and they let him go.
An hour or so later Detective Knapp made his reappearance.
“Well,” asked the coroner, as he came quietly in and closed the door behind him, “what’s your opinion?”
“Simple case, sir. Murdered for money. Find the man with a flowing beard.”
Chapter XI.
The Man With a Beard
There were but few men in town who wore long beards. A list was made of these and handed to the coroner, who regarded it with a grim smile.
“Not a man whose name is here would be guilty of a misdemeanour, let alone a crime. You must look outside of our village population for the murderer of Agatha Webb.”
“Very likely, but tell me something first about these persons,” urged
Knapp. “Who is Edward Hope?”
“A watch repairer; a man of estimable character.”
“And Sylvester Chubb?”
“A farmer who, to support his mother, wife, and seven children, works from morning till sundown on his farm, and from sundown till 11 o’clock at night on little fancy articles he cuts out from wood and sells in Boston.”
“John Barker, Thomas Elder, Timothy Sinn?”
“All good men; I can vouch for every one of them.”
“And John Zabel, James Zabel?”
“Irreproachable, both of them. Famous ship—builders once, but the change to iron ship-building has thrown them out of business. Pity, too, for they were remarkable builders. By the by, Fenton, we don’t see them at church or on the docks any more.”
“No, they keep very much to themselves; getting old, like ourselves,
Talbot.”
“Lively boys once. We must hunt them up, Fenton. Can’t bear to see old friends drop away from good company. But this isn’t business. You need not pause over their names, Knapp.”
But Knapp had slipped out.
We will follow him.
Walking briskly down the street, he went up the steps of a certain house and rang the bell. A gentleman with a face not entirely unknown to us came to the door.
The detective did not pause for preliminaries.
“Are you Mr. Crane?” he asked,—“the gentleman who ran against a man coming out of Mrs. Webb’s house last night?”
“I am Mr. Crane,” was the slightly surprised rejoinder, “and I was run against by a man there, yes.”
“Very well,” remarked the detective, quietly, “my name is Knapp. I have been sent from Boston to look into this matter, and I have an idea that you can help me more than any other man here in Sutherlandtown. Who was this person who came in contact with you so violently? You know, even if you have been careful not to mention any names.”
“You are mistaken. I don’t know; I can’t know. He wore a sweeping beard, and walked and acted like a man no longer young, but beyond that—-”
“Mr. Crane, excuse me, but I know men. If you had no suspicion as to whom that person was you would not look so embarrassed. You suspect, or, at least, associate in your own mind a name with the man you met. Was it either of these you see written here?”
Mr. Crane glanced at the card on which the other had scribbled a couple of names, and started perceptibly.
“You have me,” said he; “you must be a man of remarkable perspicacity.”
The detective smiled and pocketed his card. The names he thus concealed were John Zabel, James Zabel.
“You have not said which of the two it was,” Knapp quietly suggested.
“No,” returned the minister, “and I have not even thought. Indeed, I am not sure that I have not made a dreadful mistake in thinking it was either. A glimpse such as I had is far from satisfactory; and they are both such excellent men—-”
“Eight! You did make a mistake, of course, I have not the least doubt of it. So don’t think of the matter again. I will find out who the real man was; rest easy.”
And with the lightest of bows, Knapp drew off and passed as quickly as he could, without attracting attention, round the corner to the confectioner’s.
Here his attack was warier. Sally Loton was behind the counter with her husband, and they had evidently been talking the matter over very confidentially. But Knapp was not to be awed by her small, keen eye or strident voice, and presently succeeded in surprising