The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

William Rollins Jr. (1897–1950) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and served with the French Army during World War I (other references state that his experience was with the American Ambulance Service), after which he joined other expatriates in Paris, then settled in New York City to become a full-time freelance writer, mainly for magazines, both pulp and slick. His homosexuality was openly discussed by his friends, and Rollins wrote about the subject with sensitivity, though he never acknowledged his sexual orientation. A devoted Marxist, he believed communism was the only hope for democracy in America, though he never joined the party. He was a frequent contributor to New Masses, the Communist-supported journal, and his work, notably the proletarian novel The Shadow Before (1934), was much admired in left-wing circles, being praised by Lillian Hellman (“the finest and most stimulating book of this generation”) and John Dos Passos, among others.

Rollins had begun his career as a mystery writer, frequently selling stories to Black Mask and other pulp magazines, as well as producing such novels as Midnight Treasure (1929), The Wall of Men (1938), and, after World War II, The Ring and the Lamp (1947); he wrote a single mystery, Murder at Cypress Hall (1933), under the pseudonym O’Connor Stacy.

“The Ring on the Hand of Death,” one of twenty-one stories that Rollins wrote for Black Mask, was published in the April 1924 issue.

A murder mystery which gathers speed as it goes along; with occasional scenes in Mr. Rollins’ creepiest style.

I’m not much. Horace Sparton always said so, and he ought to know; he was one of the two richest men in town. Old Man Carr was the other one. He used to say I would come to a no-good end, and he ought to know; he had a no-good beginning. But everybody forgot that, when he started raking in the iron-men. And then Old Wallace the Walrus says I’m the worst kid she ever had in high school, but that she couldn’t expect much more, considering where I came from. But I’ve been making my own living somehow or other, ever since Mother died two years ago. And I’ve been able to work in enough time to go to school, too. So I should worry!

Of course, I did worry whenever I met Irene Burnet. She didn’t want to be seen with a bum like me... Although she always said, “Hello, Jack,” and smiled. And once when I was holding up a telegraph pole just as she was passing by, and I was staring at her without noticing I was doing it (she’s that kind, awfully easy to look at), she dropped her eyes and started blushing. And then she smiled, just as if she didn’t mind it at all!

And then one time, after I had finished fixing up Old Man Carr’s front lawn to make it ready for the spring, and then wandered down the street and pulled myself up on the fence next to Burnet’s place (it’s a comfortable seat; that’s why I like it so much), I heard some people coming up the side street. And I heard her voice.

“He’s a nice boy!” I heard her say, as if somebody else had just said he wasn’t. “He’s not only good-looking — I don’t care so much about that — but he’s honest and he works hard, and some day he’s going to make a big man of himself!”

I was trying to think how I could get away before they saw me and wondering who this great person was that she was talking about, when they came around the corner — Irene and two other girls and three fellows. When she saw me, Irene suddenly stopped talking and blushed all over, and the girls started giggling, and the fellows burst out laughing, as if they’d all suddenly thought of a big joke, all at once. For a minute I couldn’t help thinking— But I’m not going to tell you; you’ll think I’m conceited.

And besides, that isn’t why I started telling this incident. I just can’t help thinking about myself, particularly if I’m thinking about Irene. That last sentence sounds funny, but I can’t make it any clearer without getting all mixed up.

Well, just then Mr. Sparton (Horace Sparton, the district attorney) came walking down the path from the Burnets’ little house. When he saw Irene and the others, he stopped short. Then he took off his hat.

“Good evening, Miss Burnet,” he said. “I just called around to see your brother.”

“But — why, I thought you knew he went up to Denver for a few days!”

“I did. But I hoped he would be back today. However, I’ll call again in a day or two.”

And he took off his hat again with a smile and walked on.

And then you ought to have seen that smile disappear when he saw me! He came up and stood right in front of me, his big jaw sticking out.

“Get down off of that fence!” he said.

Well, I got down, taking my time about it.

“Now! If I ever catch you spoiling the scenery of our beautiful town again, lazing around like that, you’ll get no more work around my house! Do you understand?”

I thought a moment, and then said I did.

“The only reason I have you is to keep you out of the poorhouse,” he muttered.

I knew better. I knew the only reason he had me was because I charged ten cents less than a full-grown man; but I wasn’t going to lower myself arguing with him; and I let him go on, and then climbed back on the fence again. I had something I wanted to wonder about, and I can’t think and walk at the same time; I always land up against a lamppost, or in front of a swearing autoist, and forget what I was wondering about.

I wanted to wonder why Horace Sparton had next to the prettiest and sweetest girl in town for a daughter. And then I wondered whether Miriam (that’s she — or her) was going to marry Irene’s older brother, Alfred. I would be tickled stiff if she did, for Al was about the nicest chap I knew, and that’s what most of the girls around thought, too. But I knew Sparton was dead set against it, although he didn’t say much; and the particular thing I wanted to wonder about was why he had been so sweet to Irene, when usually he wouldn’t speak to her if he met her on the street.

You see, Al and Irene lived alone, and they were as poor as Croesus (or was it Diogenes? I get them twisted. One was an awful liar, I know). When Al came back from the war, he got admitted to the bar and has been waiting for trade ever since. That’s what he was in Denver for: to get a job as a lawyer, or a judge, or something like that.

You see (that’s the second time I’ve used that phrase. Wouldn’t the Walrus be sore! But editors don’t know so much as school teachers; if they did they’d get that job, you bet! Nothing to do but ask kids a lot of questions when they’ve got the book right before them! So that’s all right). You see, Old Man Carr was Al’s and Irene’s father, but he was only their stepfather, which isn’t so much.

Old Man Carr had a Past. (That’s what everybody always says in New Paris when they’re telling visitors about our prominent citizens and showing them the Opera and Slaughter and Court Houses and the cemetery and where the Soldiers’ Monument is going to be.) He was put in jail for swindling, and his wife died for shame while he was there. They said she had a kid just before she died, but nobody knew what had happened to it. Then Carr went away, and when he came back next year, he had a new wife and two kids (the kids weren’t his, of course. They were hers — Alfred and Irene Burnet). Then, just after Al came home from the war, his mother died and Old Man Carr kicked the kids out of the house; not because he was sore at them, but just because he wanted to save money. (He’d made a lot during the war.) Everybody said he’d leave them all his money when he died, but meanwhile it was pretty rough sledding; they hardly knew where their next meal was coming from. It came only when Al got some odd work to do, writing funny law things for dry papers.

Well, it was getting pretty dark, so I stopped wondering and got off the fence and went home. I live in a little shack at the edge of the town and do my own cooking, which is usually potatoes and eggs that aren’t Strictly (excepting sometimes on dark nights), and things like that.

In the summer, I usually go to the woods, and sometimes at the end of the week in the winter and spring I go to a little cabin that — but you’ll find out later. I can’t stand big cities and New Paris is big and growing faster every day. She grew from 2,800 to 2,900 between 1910 and 1920, and when the local census was taken in 1922, she had jumped to over 8,000, and I can’t stand that. If I get to wondering too hard on the main street it usually ends in a fight.

Well, I went home and rolled up my sleeves and put on my apron and set my potatoes on to boil, and that was the last I thought about the Burnets — I mean Alfred — for over a week.

The next time I saw him was late one night — or early in the morning, I don’t know which. It was a warm night in early spring, and I had taken my potatoes up to the woods and boiled them there for a change. The sky was clear and starlit, and I was walking down the avenue, where all the big bugs live.

I was passing Old Man Carr’s place, when I saw somebody stealing around the house. When he got to the path he started running.

I was near the bushes and I stood still. He came on, turning to look over his shoulder. Just as he got to the sidewalk, he turned suddenly to the right and bumped into me. I couldn’t help squeaking; for it was Alfred!

You could have knocked me over with a steam-roller!

“Hey, Al!” I said. “What’s the rush all about?”

He stood staring at me a minute. Something was wrong with his face. I think it was pale, but of course you can’t tell when it’s dark, even with stars. Finally he smiled, a little, quivering smile.

“Hello, Jackie boy!”

He always called me that. When I was a little kid he used to give me marbles and say:

“Here, Jackie boy! If you swallow them, I’ll give you some more!”

But now he looked away and when he spoke he almost stuttered.

“You... you scared me!” he said with a little laugh. “What are you hiding in the bushes for?”

Well, up to now I’d been wondering what he was about, but suddenly I found I was on the defensive.

“Aw, I don’t know,” I muttered.

“Well, run along home to bed!” he said. “If a cop sees you, he’ll think you’re up to some mischief.”

“All right, Al,” I replied, relieved to find he wasn’t going to ask any questions. I always feel I’ve done something wrong when people start asking questions, even if I haven’t.

Al started off.

“Not that I think so!” he added over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Al! You’re a good fellow!” I said. “So long!”

“So long!” And we each went in our own directions.

When I was on my way to school next morning, I saw a crowd standing in front of Old Man Carr’s house. I went up to Jim Harley.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Jim looked at me, with that air a fellow has who knows something you don’t know.

“Why,” he said, slowly, “don’t you know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t waste my time talking to you!”

I knew I could get as fresh as I liked; he was just dying to tell me.

“Why... last night... some time or other... somebody murdered Old Man Carr.”

Well, my heart just stood still. In a big city like New Paris, things like that are always happening. Only a few months before there was an auto accident and a lot of people were almost killed; one man was in the hospital over a week! But I never get used to those things.

“Gee!” I said. “Who did it?”

Jim shook his head.

“We don’t know yet,” he said, “but we’re going to find out!”

Well, we stood and watched the house for a half hour; and then I remembered that the Walrus said she’d fire me out of school if I was late again, so I beat it.

I got there just in time and I waited until I got settled in my seat in the English class, and then I started wondering. Who could have murdered Old Man Carr? There were lots of times when I was working in his garden, and he was standing over me giving directions, that I thought about doing it pretty seriously; but then I remembered my twenty cents an hour and decided to wait until I got another job. I was still wondering about it when I realized that everybody in the room was looking at me and some were giggling.

“I’ll give you just two seconds to get up and recite or to get up and leave this room forever, John Darrow!” the Walrus was saying.

I stood up.

“What do you want me to recite about?” I asked, meekly.

The Walrus put up a noble struggle with herself, but I thought she’d bust before she finally conquered.

“Recite today’s poem,” she replied in a weak voice, looking very pale.

I was willing to do that. I can always wonder about things when I’m reciting poetry, particularly if it’s nice, inspiring poetry.

“ ‘O, wild west wind, thou breath of autumn’s being!’ ” I commenced, starting at the same time to wonder who could possibly have killed Old Man Carr.

“ ‘O, lift me like a wave, a leaf, a—’ Gorry!”

“A what?” the Walrus shrieked.

But I had dropped into my seat with a bang. I had just remembered whom I saw running away from Old Man Carr’s house the night before. It just made me dizzy.

I must have looked pale, for the Walrus shut her mouth just as she was going to say something unfriendly, and all the kids stopped giggling.

One of the girls was standing up to recite the poem, when the door opened.

A policeman came in. The room was deadly silent while he walked to the Walrus’ desk. They stood whispering for a minute. Then they turned and looked at me.

“John,” said the Walrus; “you will go with the officer!”

I got up and walked to the door, trying to wonder whose patch I had been caught in. The cop took my arm, rather too firmly, for I wasn’t trying to get away. We walked down the stairs and out the school door without saying anything. Then we walked down the street, while everybody turned to look at me. Gee, I felt cheap!

When we got to the Court House I was just about wilted, and the cop almost had to drag me up the steps. We went through the long, dark corridor until he stopped before a door and knocked at it. After a minute the key was turned and the door opened.

Then I knew it was all up, for there I saw young Judge Forest and I had been in his backyard the night before to see if I couldn’t find a potato barrel or an apple barrel, for I was rather short of supplies. He was sitting there looking serious and there were several cops and people, and among them was Alfred Burnet!

Well, I thought that was pretty mean! Here I had thought right along that Al was a friend of mine, and now he was testifying against me, just because he saw me out late the night before! And after he had said that he didn’t think I had done anything, too!

Well, they led me to a seat and I sat down hard. And then Judge Forest said:

“Good morning, Jack. How are you?”

And I answered him:

“Good morning, sir. How are you?”

I wanted to say, “How are your potatoes?” but I thought perhaps it would be better if I didn’t.

Well, the Judge pulled his chair up and leaned over, just as if he were going to offer me a cigar, and then he said:

“Jack, I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and looked at the window, and wondered how long it would be before I saw it from the outside.

They couldn’t put me in the coop for over a month for just a couple of measly potatoes that I didn’t get anyhow.

“Jack,” said the Judge in a soft voice, “where were you last night?”

“I was in the woods,” I told him.

“You were... And what time did you come home?”

Well, I was scared, but I wanted to laugh at that. He was way off the track! I was in his backyard before I went up to the woods. So I answered:

“Pretty late. About midnight, I reckon.”

“You reckon? Aren’t you sure? Didn’t you look at your watch?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure you didn’t look at your watch?”

“No — that is, no, sir.”

I was a little rattled by the way he tried to catch me.

“Ah! You’re just a little bit in doubt... Now, Jack! Be careful! Are you sure you didn’t look at your watch?”

“Yes, sir... I haven’t got any,” I added, happening to think that might be a good argument.

Well, everybody laughed — except Al. He only smiled rather weakly. I thought he looked as if he was ashamed of himself when he had to face me. The Judge leaned closer to me and then he said, very softly:

“Well... we’ll say about midnight... And did you meet anybody on your way home?”

Well, Al was sitting there, looking at me, sort of white and determined, so I decided to be frank about it. Honesty pays — sometimes.

“Yes,” I said.

And then there was a great silence and everybody — except Al — leaned over as if they would fall off of their chairs, and the Judge whispered:

“Who?”

And I said, with a loud, ringing, frank voice:

“Alfred Burnet!”

You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody who was facing Al turned away. The Judge never took his eyes from me.

“Where did you meet him?” he asked.

And then it suddenly flashed over me. I got dizzy and cold all over. All I could see was Al’s white face and his big eyes looking at me. I’ll never forget those eyes!

The Judge grabbed hold of my knee and pressed it, and his mouth became hard and cruel.

“Answer me, boy!” he commanded. “Where did you see Mr. Burnet?”

“I... I can’t remember...”

I’d heard that that was all right to say in courtrooms, but I reckon I made a mistake, for Pat Ryan, the biggest cop on the force, came up and grabbed my shoulder and the Judge pressed my leg until I thought it was going to break.

“I saw you at one o’clock turning down from the Avenue,” said Pat. “I’ll make you remember!” He shook my shoulder. “And I’ll know if you’re telling the truth!”

“Where did you see Mr. Burnet?”

“In front of... of his house.”

Then the cop shook the upper part of me until I could hear my bones rattle, and the Judge almost squeezed the juice out of the lower part of me. And when they got tired Al said in a low voice:

“Tell the truth, Jackie boy.”

“Where did you see Mr. Burnet?”

“I saw him in front of — in front of Ol — Mr. Carr’s house.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was... running.”

“Away from the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did he act as though he was frightened?”

The voice sounded miles away.

“Yes.”

I could hear my own voice like a loud whisper.

There was a moment’s silence. Then the Judge started asking me more questions that I couldn’t see any sense in. And all the time I answered them, looking at Al’s white face and staring eyes.

Finally the Judge stood up. He picked something from the table and held it behind his back.

“One question more,” he said. “Did you ever see this before?”

And he pulled out his hand.

I was fairly sick. In his hand he held a German trench knife. It was one Al had brought home from the war. And it was covered with blood — new blood!

I nodded my head.

“Where did you see it?”

I looked at Al. He nodded his head slightly.

“In... in Al’s house.”

The Judge nodded to one of the policemen, who went to open the door.

“That will be all, Jack,” said the Judge, smiling and holding out his hand. “Thank you very much. You are free to go. Only don’t leave town before the trial... Good-bye.”

I stood up. I was almost bawling, but I wouldn’t have let them see it for the world.

“There’s one thing you didn’t ask me!” I said, shouting to keep back the tears. “And that’s whether I think Al murdered Old Man Carr or not!”

The Judge smiled.

“Well?” he said, picking up some papers.

“Well,” I shouted; “I think there isn’t a one of you who wouldn’t do it a million times quicker than he would!”

And then I went out as quick as I could, without letting them think I was in a hurry.

I walked fast out of the town and then I just tore across the fields until I got to the woods. And then I sat down and cried like a girl.

Well, I got that off my chest and then I built a fire and lay down and started wondering. I wondered for a long while without getting anywhere, and then I reckon I must have fallen asleep, for it was almost dark when I turned over, shivering, and saw my fire was out. There were little flakes of snow coming down, although it was March.

I got up to go home, and then it occurred to me I might meet Irene, and I was scared stiff. So I decided to go to my cabin for the night. I’ve already spoken about that. It’s a little cabin in the woods, about five miles from town. It really isn’t mine, having been built by a young couple who live in Berlin, next town to New Paris. But they don’t use it, except in the summer. I go out there a good deal in the winter, but I never bother them when they’re around.

So I started down the little path, and it got darker and darker, because the trees were getting thicker and the night was coming on. And the snow fell very quiet, and my footsteps hardly made any noise because there was a carpet of thick, soggy leaves. And then, suddenly, after I had gone about three miles, I stopped short. For there ahead of me, I saw a girl, sitting on a stump, leaning over and trying to write something with a pencil on her knee. With a paper in between, of course.

Well, I advanced cautiously, for I’ve been in the Boy Scouts, and I’ve learned it’s silly to expose yourself needlessly when you’re in the woods. There’s always apt to be a trap around when you see something awfully innocent-looking — like a young girl writing on a paper.

Then, all at once, I gave a shout, for I saw it was only Jane Brewster, the pretty girl who minds the babies at the Masons’ and does odd chores at different houses in the afternoons.

Jane gave a little cry, and crumpled the paper up quick. I didn’t blame her. It’s a scary thing to have somebody yell at you like that when you’re alone in the woods and it’s almost dark. Besides, for all I knew, she might have belonged to the Girl Scouts one time.

But when I came up and she saw who I was, she still looked pale and scared and hid the paper behind her.

“Hello, Jane!” I said, cheerfully.

She stared at me as I stood before her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked me, very hoarsely.

“Me? I’m on a vacation. Going to my winter mansion. But what are you doing here?”

Jane dropped her eyes.

“I’m going home,” she said in a low voice.

“Going home!” I cried. “But your people live fifteen miles away from here! You can’t get there tonight!”

But Jane didn’t lift her eyes from the ground.

“I’m going home,” she repeated doggedly.

Well, I was puzzled. I couldn’t understand why Jane should be going back to her family suddenly this late in the day, when she could get a train the next morning. But that wasn’t any of my business. All I cared about was the fact that I knew she would be lost in the woods when night came on for fair. So I said:

“I’ll tell you, Jane. You can’t ever get home this late. You come to my cabin! There are three beds there — and a screen to make a regular room for you. And you stay there for the night and start home first thing in the morning!”

Jane looked at me rather suspiciously; but I argued with her. Poor Jane! I wish she had told me to go to the devil and tried to get home as best she could in the dark woods! Still, if it hadn’t been Jane, it would have been — But I’ve got to tell the story in order. The Walrus always said I get things tail end to, and I reckon she’s right.

Well, Jane got up and followed me. We walked along the path in Indian file and without saying anything. Finally it got so dark I had to wave my arms about to keep from bumping into trees, and I told Jane to grab hold of my coat. And all the time I could feel the little flakes of snow touching my face.

At last we got to the cabin. I was used to it, but Jane seemed sort of scared when I opened the door for her after I climbed in the window. I reckon it is a pretty gloomy place.

But I lighted a lamp and built a fire in the pot-bellied stove. And then I got on my knees and felt under the bed, and brought out some potatoes and apples and a can of tomato soup I’d found in Jenkins’ Grocery Store and which I’d kept for some big occasion like this. Then we cooked them and we had a big feast.

After supper I lighted my pipe and sat with my feet on the stove, while Jane washed the dishes. It was awful homelike. I wonder if Irene washes dishes good?

Then the first funny thing happened. When she finished washing the dishes and thought I wasn’t looking, Jane tiptoed over to the coal scuttle that was used for ashes and dropped the paper she had been writing on into it and covered it with ashes. Then she came and sat opposite me. I was facing the stove. She was facing the window.

“This is a nice place,” she said, folding her hands and looking around and smiling a weak little smile.

It was a nice place — a long cabin, with two cots at either end, under the windows, and a cot and a screen for when the owners had company, near the stove. Then there were a couple of tables: one with the lamp on it, that gave a mighty cheerful glow to the room.

“I like it,” I replied. “It’s a relief to get out here in the quiet, away from the excitement and noise in New Paris.”

When I said “New Paris,” the smile left her face, and that reminded me of what I was trying to forget. So I decided to talk about it. I like to have somebody to talk over my troubles with; I’m funny that way.

“Wasn’t that a terrible murder!” I said, as an opener.

With that, Jane turned as pale as if somebody had sucked the blood right out of her. I decided that she was a sympathetic listener, so I kept on.

“Not that it wasn’t a good thing to get Old Man Carr out of the way, but to think of their accusing Al Burnet—”

But Jane jumped up.

“What did you say?” she cried, looking down at me as if she was going to eat me.

“Haven’t you heard?” I asked. “They’ve arrested poor Al!”

Jane dropped in her seat, and started staring at the button that wasn’t on my coat.

“Anybody who’d think Al could murder his father, even if he was only his stepfather, is crazy!” I muttered.

Jane didn’t say anything. She just stared, and her breath came hard.

“I’d rather think I did it myself,” I went on.

I waited for Jane to answer, but she didn’t. So I shut up and listened to the wood crackling in the stove. Suddenly Jane spoke and I jumped.

“Do you think they can... they can—”

But she couldn’t finish it.

I knew what she meant, though.

“It looks pretty hard for him,” I told her. “They made me testify I saw him outside late at night. And they found his German trench knife covered with blood there.”

Jane had kept her eyes lowered all the time. Now she looked up and glanced around the room. She was trembling all over.

“Jack,” she whispered; “can you keep a secret?”

“I reckon so,” I answered.

“Can you keep it until it’s a question of life or death — and then let me know two days beforehand?”

I looked at her in surprise.

“What are you driving at, Jane?” I demanded.

But Jane was impatient.

“Can you?” she repeated.

“Of course I can!”

“Swear?”

“On the Bible.” And I held my hand in the air and cussed.

She was still for a moment. Then she leaned forward and whispered:

“I know who killed Mr. Carr!”

I was dumbfounded.

“You what?” I cried.

Jane slapped her hand over my mouth.

“Sh!” she whispered. Then she drew her chair nearer. “I called at Mr. Carr’s the other night after supper,” she said, leaning way forward and staring at me wild-eyed. “He owed me some money, and I suddenly decided to ask him to pay me. Well, I went to his back door and rang, and after a while he came. He was mad when he saw who it was, and madder still when I told him what I wanted. He started to tell me to go away, but then he changed his mind and said he would pay me if I stayed and washed the kitchen floor.

“Well, it was late, but I needed the money, so I said I would. He went upstairs, and I took off my coat and put on my apron and got to work.

“I was about half done when the front door bell rang. I answered it. It was Mr. Burnet. He smiled and said, ‘Hello,’ and asked if Mr. Carr was in. I said he was, and he went upstairs, and I went back to work.

“Pretty soon I heard a lot of angry talk and shouting over my head. I had about finished my work then, but I wanted my money that night, so I decided to wait until Mr. Burnet left and then ask Mr. Carr for it. I sat down in that old rocking chair in the kitchen.

“I was pretty tired and I fell asleep. When I woke up, I looked at the clock. It was two-thirty.

“I thought it was funny Mr. Carr hadn’t waked me up and sent me home, but I decided to creep out and come back next day. But just then I looked out and saw the light from his window reflected on the lawn. So I reckoned he was awake and thought I’d go up and get my money.

“I went out in the hall. It was dark and quiet. I walked up the carpeted stairs, very quiet, so as not to wake him, if he had fallen asleep.

“I got to the top of the stairs and saw the light in his room. I crept across the hall and when I got to the door, I peeked in. And there—”

Jane put her hand over her eyes as if she still saw it. I waited a minute, feeling the stillness of the little cabin creep over me. It made me uneasy.

“Go on, Jane,” I said in a whisper.

She took her hand from her eyes and went on, trembling all over.

“And there I saw Mr. Carr, lying back in his easy chair, a dagger stuck in his heart!

“I stood staring at him, so scared I couldn’t even scream. And while I stood there, the door to his little alcove opened and there I saw — Ah!”

I jumped at her cry and looked up. She was staring before her as if she saw Death. I thought she was seeing the murderer in her imagination.

“Who did you see?” I whispered, on the edge of my chair.

She didn’t seem to hear me.

“Who did you see?” I repeated.

She turned and looked at me as if she noticed me for the first time. Then in a loud, clear voice she cried:

“Alfred Burnet murdered Mr. Carr!”

I stared at her a minute. Then I dropped my head in my hands. So it was Al after all! My poor, beloved Al, Irene’s brother!

I had a funny empty feeling. There wasn’t anything more to do. There wasn’t anything to wonder about. I raised my head slowly.

“Do you want to go to bed now?” I asked her.

She nodded. She didn’t seem to have strength to speak. I dragged myself to one of the end beds and made it up with the blankets — there were no sheets. Then I put the screen around it and moved the table up outside of the screen so that she could reach around and lay her clothes there. It was too big to put inside.

“All right, Jane,” I said, and she got up slowly and went behind the screen. I dropped again in my seat by the stove and started looking glumly at the coals.

But I reckon Jane got a little scared when she was in the dark back of the screen, for she started talking at a great streak.

“Do you think this snow is going to keep up all night?” she asked in a little, quavering voice.

I looked up and saw her pretty little hand reach around the screen and put her gingham dress on the table.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, “and I don’t care much.”

“Well, I do! You see, I want to get home as early...” And she went on talking and saying things that didn’t interest me, just then when I was trying to wonder.

After a while she stopped, and I thought I’d put in a word, just to be polite.

“Don’t you intend to come back to New Paris again?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Hah, Jane?” I asked again.

But still she didn’t answer.

“She’s gone to sleep, poor kid,” I said to myself, and I took a little stick and started raking the coals to make the room a bit warmer.

Just then I heard her open the window.

“That’s funny,” I said to myself. “She’s awake after all!... And she might have waited until I went to bed. It’s as cold as blazes outside... I suppose she’s all upset...” And I settled back, trying to figure out things.

I had seen Al leaving Carr’s house after the murder. And that sure was his knife. And now Jane said he was the one that did it. But for all that, I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t!... But if he didn’t, who did?

I was sitting back in my chair until it almost tipped over, with my feet resting against the side of the stove. The lamp was burning lower, and the light was sort of contracting away from the corners of the room. The big, dark screen was spread out and made a regular wall, a few feet in front of me. The reflection of the light on that was getting dimmer and I could just see the edge of the blackness that was around Jane’s bed.

Well, suddenly, while I was sitting there wondering, I saw Jane’s hand reach out and feel around the edge of the table that touched the end of the screen.

That was funny. There she was quiet all the time, and yet she hadn’t been asleep! I was just going to pipe up and ask her if I could get something for her, when I stopped, my heart in my mouth.

The hand that was feeling around was not Jane’s hand!

The light was pretty low by now and everything was blurred, but I could see the hand feeling around and feeling around. I leaned way forward, as quiet as I could, and looked.

It was a man’s hand! And on the finger you point with, there was a ring with a long, funny-shaped bloodstone in it.

I could hear my heart pumping. I sat way over and kept just as still, straining my eyes!

But now it was so dark I could just make out the quiet, moving hand. Finally it touched Jane’s underskirt. Its fingers closed on it and pulled it quietly off of the table. Then it disappeared.

I was scared stiff. I know sixteen’s pretty old to be scared, but I admit it just the same. I watched that screen and listened. But the screen slowly disappeared in the darkness and all I heard was Jane moving over in bed.

That made me a little more comfortable.

“You’re a big coward,” I told myself. “That was just Jane’s hand and you’re such a scarecrow that anything’ll get your goat.”

But all the time something told me it wasn’t and I knew I ought to get up and look.

I sat there, trying to get up nerve. I just sat tilted back, while everything got darker and darker and the open door of the stove made a light on the ceiling that grew brighter and brighter. And I heard a movement behind the screen as if Jane was restless: and then everything was still.

Finally I sat up with a plop.

“You go and look,” I told myself, “or I won’t ever speak to you again!”

So I got up.

The lamp was as good as out, but there was a candle in the cupboard. I got it and lighted it.

It didn’t make the room any brighter. Just one little spot around me. However, I’d be able to see Jane.

I crossed the room on tiptoes, so as not to wake her. When I got to the screen, I hesitated. Then I stood off and peeked.

Jane was lying on her side, her back to me, and sleeping as peaceful as I could ask.

Gorry, you don’t know how relieved I felt! I could have danced a jig! But instead of that I just tiptoed back to the bed in the center of the room and set the candle down and undressed. Then I got in bed and blew out the light and in two minutes I was fast asleep.

I sat up in bed with a bounce. I had been dreaming that Al Burnet had murdered me and they’d accused Old Man Carr of it and they wanted me to testify and I refused, feeling I’d had about enough to do with the affair. I was sitting up, because Judge Forest had pulled me that far out of my grave, and I wanted to get back in again.

Well, I sat there, looking at a lot of darkness, and trying to convince myself I was in bed and not in my coffin.

“You dumbbell!” I said to myself, “a corpse can’t argue, and you’re arguing as fast as your two-for-a-cent brain can work!”

Well, that sort of settled matters about the graveyard... But still I wasn’t quite satisfied. There was something wrong and I couldn’t just think what it was.

I looked around, but I might just as well have kept my head still. It was as dark as a grave, and a lot more quiet... excepting I saw a bit of a bare, black tree trunk, and a piece of night sky on both sides of it.

Then I remembered I wasn’t alone and I felt relieved; Jane was with me and—

— and I had seen a hand reach out from behind the screen, that wasn’t Jane’s hand!

I remembered that, and I got cold all over... But I had seen Jane sleeping peacefully afterward... And you could tell she was sleeping peaceful now... peaceful and quiet.

...A little too quiet.

I laid the blankets carefully back, so as not to make a noise. Then I crawled to the end of my bed that was pointed toward the screen.

I waited there, on my hands and knees, looking to where the screen ought to be. And I listened.

There wasn’t a sound. I waited and listened, feeling something funny creep up from my stomach.

“Why, you nut!” I told myself. “Of course you can’t hear her! You can’t even hear your own breath!”

But then I decided that wasn’t odd, because, after investigating, I discovered I hadn’t been doing any breathing for some little time. So I grabbed the edge of the cot and leaned over until I almost fell into the darkness. Then I listened again.

But there wasn’t any sound.

“Jane!” I called, softly.

She didn’t answer.

“Jane!” I called again, louder; much too loud for a dark, empty cabin — for there was something empty about it. You can tell, somehow or other.

I got out of bed and felt around for my candle. Then I got a match and lighted it.

It was funny. Before I lighted it, the only light place was the patch behind the tree trunk. Then, suddenly, that was all swallowed up by the black windowpane, and now the room was lighted — not much lighted — just a flickering, shadowy light that hardly reached the corners and made the screen seem like a great, gloomy wall.

Then I walked up close (not too close), and peeked.

Well, it seemed all right. Jane was lying there, just as I left her... She hadn’t moved an inch... not an inch.

And then I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: something white that was bunched near her mouth. (Her head was turned away, you see.) I took a step forward.

The bedclothes were off her, and she was lying right below the window, where the cold, icy wind blew in. I tiptoed over to cover her up. And then that feeling in my stomach jumped right up into my mouth.

I saw blood!

It covered her nightgown, right above her heart, and the sheet below was just soaked with it!

Well, I squeezed that candle until I almost squashed it, and I made myself go and look. I crept up between the screen and the bed and leaned over.

She was dead!

I touched her arm. It was cold and stiff. I pulled it gently and she fell over on her back. And as her head fell over, her white underskirt came with it, for it was stuffed in her mouth!

She had been dead for hours. Somebody had climbed in the window and scared her into keeping still. Then he had stuffed her petticoat into her mouth while she lay there frightened stiff. And then, suddenly, he had stabbed her. Right in the heart.

And it was the hand of the murderer I had seen feeling around in front of the screen!

I figured this out quick, while I stood before the bed, shivering from cold and fear. And then I turned and almost knocked over the screen and ran back to my own side of the room.

I got into my clothes as quick as I could. I didn’t know who had murdered Jane, but I knew who could have stopped it if he hadn’t been such a damn coward! That was the only thought I had in my brain as I got dressed — that, and the thought of getting out of the cabin as quick as I could. I’d notify the police in New Paris, or something, but anyhow, I’d get out!

I didn’t know what time it was when I locked the door and climbed out of the center window, but when I dragged myself up the deserted street at the edge of town a couple of hours later, the sun hadn’t risen.

I didn’t have any thoughts in my head; just a funny jumble. So I went home and threw myself on my bed to wonder about it all. And then, before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when I waked up. I lay wondering for about ten seconds. Then I jumped off my bed and ran out the door. I was going to tell the police about the murder of Jane.

I went down Main Street, wondering about poor Jane, until I had to stop doing that to wonder why I wasn’t bumping into anybody like I generally do when I’m wondering on Main Street. I looked up and then I saw why: there wasn’t anybody to bump into. Main Street was as deserted as it had been at dawn; and it was twice as dismal.

But I didn’t have much time to wonder about that. I wanted to report Jane’s death as quick as I could, and then gather some news about Al. So I headed for the Court House. And there I saw why Main Street was deserted.

The Court House was just chock-full of men and women, with little kids dripping out of all the windows. My heart started jazzing up, for I had a pretty good idea what the party was all about. I saw Jim Harley on the Court House steps and I wandered up to him.

“What’s up?” I asked, sort of careless-like.

Jim stared at me, as if I was some new species off of Mars.

“What brook did you drown yourself in,” he asked, “and you don’t know they’re trying Al Burnet?”

“I’ve been out to my country estate,” I told him. “What are they trying him now for, two days after the murder?”

“They’ve got to. The crowd’s been trying to get at him to lynch him all morning long, so Mr. Sparton’s made them get a quick trial to save his life and hang him proper.”

Well, I just felt myself turn white all over. Lynch Al Burnet! And this crowd of bums he’d always been so decent with, too! I had a lot of thoughts on the subject, and I expressed them in a loud voice to Jim and anyone else who might be around.

Jim listened, interested-like, until I got through. Then he turned and looked across the street.

“Do you think the branch of that there tree is very strong?” he asked me.

But I didn’t answer him. Somebody had just got down from the window next to the steps, and I ran over to it and pulled myself up and looked inside.

The first thing I saw was old Judge Wharton who lives in Berlin, sitting up on the bench and looking important and frowning all over. Then I saw Horace Sparton, who is the district attorney, leaning over the table and glaring at somebody. I looked to see who he was glaring at.

It was Irene Burnet. She was standing in the witness box. I could just see the tip of her nice little nose beyond her curly, yellow hair, and a bit of her cheek. But even that bit, I could see, was as white as marble, and her lips, that were quivering, were as pale as anything. She was holding on to the rail as tight as she could.

“What time did you say he got in?” I heard Sparton shout.

Irene’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear anything.

“Louder, please, Miss Burnet!”

And then I heard, soft and awful weak:

“One o’clock.”

Sparton smiled and then nodded to her. Irene left the stand, holding her head up, but looking like she was going to die.

“One more witness,” Sparton said, “and then our case is finished.”

And he turned and spoke to the clerk.

I was hunting for Al now, and I found him, sitting at the table. His face was almost as white as Irene’s, but he was looking proud and handsome. He watched his sister sit down, looking as if he was awfully sorry for her. And then he turned toward where the people sat who were watching the show. And I saw who he was looking at.

It was Miriam Sparton, Horace’s daughter. She looked terrible. You could see she believed Al was innocent and she was sore at her father for prosecuting him. And there was love in her eyes and she didn’t care who knew it.

But she was the only one who had love in her eyes. The crowd around her were looking at Al as hard as she was, but there wasn’t any love in their faces. All the hard-boiled guys in town were in front, and they were looking at Al just the way a cat looks into a mouse-trap if there’s a mouse there. I couldn’t have sat before them looking as indifferent as he did!

I saw this awfully quick, because soon I was thinking of other things. For after Sparton spoke to the clerk, the clerk turned and shouted:

“John Darrow!”

Well, I don’t know whether it was quick thinking on my part, or whether I just fell off the window in surprise. Anyhow, in just about one jiffy, I was hiking down the pike as fast as I could go. I wasn’t going to do any testifying against Al Burnet!

I beat it down the street and kept on going until the first thing I knew I was sitting on the fence next to the Burnets’ place. It’s so comfortable there and I can wonder easy. And I wondered along until suddenly I brought up with a bang.

“Well, you big, fat-headed fool!” I said to myself, among other things.

For I had just remembered the paper Jane had been writing on and hid in the ashes!

I’d been sure right along that the fellow who murdered Jane was the same one who murdered Old Man Carr, because, somehow or other, there was something fishy about the way Jane laid the blame on Al. I’d intended to tell the police all about it and what I suspicioned, but now I didn’t dare to; they’d hold me for a witness against Al.

Now I’d thought of the paper, I felt a little happier. It might tell something interesting; and even if it didn’t, it’d give me something to do. And if it did tell something, I could testify about it in the morning.

“I’ll go out to the cabin now,” I said. And as I said it, I couldn’t help shuddering a little. It was already getting dark and I thought of that cabin, alone there in the woods — and what was in it.

However, I jumped down and started off. Before I went, though, I crept around the corner.

There was nobody at Burnet’s house, and I ran up the path. They never lock the door, for they haven’t got anything to steal, so I opened it and went inside.

I went into the living-room. Everything was sort of upside down. It made me feel rather bad, for Irene is usually awful particular, but you could tell she didn’t care what happened now. The waste-paper basket was beside the big center table, and I picked a sheet of paper out of it that was almost clean. Then I wrote on it in big letters:

I started to sign “Jack” to it, but then I thought I wouldn’t, and I put “A Friend.” It sounds more important and mysterious.

Then I ran outside and started for the woods. Before I could reach them, though, I had to pass the foot of the Avenue. And who should I run into of all people, but Horace Sparton. He grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Here, boy!” he said. “Where were you this afternoon?”

Well, I was trying to think of about a million things at once, so I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“In church, sir,” I answered meekly.

Then Old Sparton shook me.

“Don’t try to be funny with me, boy!” he grunted. “You are supposed to be a witness for the state. We had to call off the trial because of you... But I’ll see that you’re there tomorrow morning,” he muttered between his teeth, and he started to march me off toward the lock-up.

I went along with him a ways, because I wanted to do some wondering, and it was easy to do it and walk with his hand on my collar. I didn’t have to see where I was going. Finally, however, I craned my neck up and looked at him.

“Please, Mr. Sparton,” I said, “won’t you let me go?”

“No, I won’t,” he said; and he looked as if that was settled.

“Well, look, Mr. Sparton,” I went on, “if you let me go now, I’ll show up first thing in the morning! Honest I will! I swear on the Bible!”

“I don’t care if you swear on the Wall Street Journal,” he said. “You’re coming along with me. And don’t talk so much. You annoy me enough by just living.”

“Well, look, Mr. Sparton! If you let me go, I’ll find out the murderer for you!”

Well, then he swung around and stared down at me.

“What do you mean, the murderer?” he shouted. “We’ve got the murderer in the lock-up — unless they’ve already lynched him.”

And then he looked at me sort of thoughtful and started shaking me, offhand like.

I waited until he got through. Then I decided the best thing to do was take him into my confidence.

“Well, look, Mr. Sparton,” I began; “I know where I can get some dope on who murdered Old Man — Mr. Carr — a place in the woods where—”

And then I stopped. His eyes were glaring and his face kept coming lower and lower as if he was going to rub noses with me. Then he said, kind of hoarse:

“What kind of dope?”

“Well, look, Mr. Sparton, you just let me go and—”

But he had started shaking me again and the rest of my words came out funny; all twisted and different-sounding from the way they started out to be.

“You tell me all about it,” he said, “and I’ll tell the police and they can go out and investigate.”

That made me just turn cold and sweat at the same time. If Sparton had let go of me then, I would have just dropped right through the sidewalk and come up in China or Ireland or some place. Because if any police had gone out to my cabin and seen Jane lying there, murdered, and known that I was there alone with her the night before — well, the boys would be tying two ropes to the same branch. And it didn’t make me any more cheerful when Sparton squinted at me and said:

“It’s mighty funny what you do by yourself all alone in the woods! I think the police had better go out and take a look at the place anyhow!”

I thought a while to think of some good reply to get him off of the track; and finally I said:

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, come along!” he said, starting off.

And I said:

“Yes, sir,” as I dragged along after him.

And then, suddenly, I threw up my arms and slipped out of my coat. It was a cold night, and he had thick gloves on, and hadn’t been able to get a good grip on my body.

Sparton just had time enough to say:

“Well, I’ll be—” as if he was displeased, when I turned the corner. In two minutes I passed the last house and the last street lamp in town and was looping across the dark meadow. Then I beat it into the wood.

It was as dark as blazes (only blazes is awfully light), and I had a job finding the path even with my pocket flashlight. I reckon it must have been after eight o’clock when I went flying over the stump where I found Jane sitting the day before; and when I reached the sharp corner in the path just this side of the cabin and started to go straight ahead, it was almost nine. I’ve got so I can tell time by the stars and things.

And then I slowed down. I wanted to go faster; I knew I ought to go faster; and the path was wide and clear — but I just couldn’t make it. I don’t know why, but my feet just dragged as if they were tied to a ball and chain.

And when I came in sight of that cabin, standing black and quiet underneath the trees at the end of the path, I just had to pinch myself in the back to make me go on.

The front window was just beside the path. I opened it and stuck my head in. I couldn’t see anything. It was just all black.

And yet I couldn’t help turning my head and looking to the left. It was black and silent like the rest. But I knew I was looking at the screen; and beyond that screen—

Well, I turned around and gave a last look at the outdoors, at the black, bare trunks and limbs, sticking up into the dark sky. There were five miles of thick woods between me and any other living human being.

I was thinking of that when I hoisted myself up to the window sill, and my arms sort of wobbled and I fell back again.

“Come on, you yellow baby!” I sneered at me.

Then I gave a big jump up and landed clear through on my nose.

I sat up in the dark, listening, while it got all quiet again. Then I stood up and felt around for the candle and lighted it.

Nothing had changed. The fire had gone out and my chair stood beside it. It was facing the screen as I left it... And there was the screen, keeping Jane’s body in her own part of the room.

I set the candle on the table and the wind blew it and made big, funny shadows on the ceiling. But I didn’t want to close that window. I knew there wasn’t anything but black woods all around. But that was better than being shut up alone with... Jane.

I stood a long while looking at that big staring screen. I started to go over to it, and then I decided I ought to eat my supper first. I reckon it was just an excuse, but I hadn’t eaten anything since Jane and I had our supper the night before, and I suddenly found I was mighty hungry.

So I got the pail and unlocked the door and felt my way through the dark until I found the stream. Then I came back.

I’d left the door open, so’s I could see, but I wished I hadn’t. The path was oblique, so all the time I walked up it, I was just looking at that screen, standing there, and just a tiny bit of white — the bed.

Well, after I got in and closed the door, I sat down and carefully washed my potatoes. (I don’t usually do that.) Then I started to pare them. (I don’t do that, either.) I reckon I spent an hour doing that... But all the time I was looking at the screen, that was so silent and big, and thinking of what was on the other side of it.

Then I got down and looked under the bed to see if there was something else to eat, although I knew there wasn’t.

Finally I stood up and looked at the screen.

“Now, see here, crazy!” I said. “Dead people can’t hurt you! You’ve got to go right over there and show Jane you’re a man!”

I stood a second getting up nerve. Then, suddenly, I walked over to it and peeked.

She was lying just as I left her, with the wind coming through the window over her head and blowing her pretty hair.

And she was staring up at me, sort of reproachfully.

I felt terrible. First, I’d let her get killed without lifting a hand. And then I was so scared and addle-headed I’d run off and left her body lying there.

“I’m awfully sorry, Jane,” I whispered. “I’ll fix you nice, now, and then in the morning, after I testify, I’ll tell them about you and we’ll come up and bury you.”

Then I pulled the bedclothes down and made her all straight. I folded her arms across her breast and covered her up again. I started to close her eyes, but I couldn’t seem to get up nerve enough for that. Then I stood looking at her.

The candle was on the other side of the screen and she and I were in a shadow. Finally I leaned over the bed to put down the window. It was awfully black outside!

I just had my fingers on the window, when I heard a little noise.

I listened a minute. It was just the wind in the trees, I told myself. They were making that noise that cold branches make when the wind blows.

“Yes, that’s all it is,” I said to myself; “so don’t get so scared.”

And while I was saying it, I knew it was something else.

...It was footsteps, creeping along through the trees behind the cabin!

Well, I came from behind the screen and went to the middle of the room. And then I stood there, staring like a gawk and wondering what I ought to do. From the corners of my eyes I could see the gloomy room with the shadows moving back and forth as the candle flickered. And straight ahead of me I was looking at the middle window that I had left open.

...And while I looked there, a man passed in front of it, on his way to the door!

Well, I stood there, trying to think of something to do. Then I started to run and lock the door and shut the window. But I hadn’t put one foot forward, when I saw the handle move.

Slowly the door opened and a man looked in!

He was a big woodsman with a fur cap and a thick black beard. He had on a mackinaw and heavy woolen gloves. And he had a knife in his belt.

He stood looking at me for a moment without saying a word. Then he stepped inside and shut the door.

“How d’y!” he said.

I made a little noise with my mouth. It was funny and dry. I reckon I must have been thirsty.

The man looked around. His eyes rested for a minute on the screen and I thought I’d drop. Finally he looked back at me.

“You live here?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Alone?” And his eyes squinted as he looked at me.

I wet my mouth with my tongue. Then I said:

“I got a friend staying with me.”

The man sort of frowned.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“My friend’s right around here.” Which was true. Jane was right behind the bed.

The man looked around again. Then he looked back at me. And he sort of smiled.

“Well, will you give me some supper?” he asked. “I’m starved... I’ll pay you for it.”

“Do you like potatoes?” I said.

“Pretty well.”

“All right. Stick around.” I was acting perky, but I wasn’t feeling that way at all.

I had already built my fire, and put the potatoes in, and now they were boiling merrily. I got a fork and jabbed it into them to see if they were done.

While I was doing it, I heard the window close. I swung around.

The man was looking at me.

“It’s coming up cold,” he said. But a funny little smile flickered around the corner of his mouth. And then: “Is that window behind the screen closed?” he asked, taking a step forward.

“Yes, it is! It’s shut tight!” I said, feeling sort of pale.

He hesitated a minute. Then he dropped into a chair by the table.

I fooled around, preparing supper and trying to get my nerve back. It seemed to have all dribbled out through my pores like sweat. It wasn’t that I was a-scared of woodsmen. They’re a pretty good sort, although they’re hard-boiled eggs. But the dead body, lying just about three feet in back of him, and the general commotion of the last two days sort of made me wobbly. Besides, there was something about that man’s face that wasn’t what you’d call just friendly.

But I got hold of myself at last and lugged the potatoes over to the table — and my heart just went plunk in my boots again.

The man had thrown off his coat and moved up to the table and was taking off his gloves; and on the finger you point with was a long, funny-shaped bloodstone!

I just sat and stared, and the pan with the potatoes dropped lower and lower until it touched my pants. Then I hopped up with a yell and the potatoes went flying. The man jumped up and leaned over the table.

“What do you mean, throwing those potatoes around like that!” he yelled.

I was down on my knees, trying to pick them up.

“It’s a quick way to cool them off,” I said, not to be funny, but because I couldn’t think of anything better.

“I’ll cool you off,” he muttered.

But he sat down again and started pulling the peelings off with his sharp, gleaming knife.

Well, we ate there, awfully quiet, except for the funny noises we were making with our mouths. I say “we.” I wasn’t doing much eating. Every time I lifted my knife to my mouth I saw that black beard with the candle light on it; and behind that, in the shadow, the big screen.

Finally he’d eaten all he wanted, which I’d done before I started. Then he got up and stretched.

“What bed does your friend sleep in?” he asked.

“That one behind the screen,” I told him.

I didn’t know his game, but I knew he wanted to pretend he didn’t know what was behind the screen. And I wasn’t hankering after any showdown.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll take this middle bed and you can take the other end one.”

Then, just as if we’d settled everything long ago, he pulled the table toward him and sat down on the bed.

“Better hurry up,” he said. “I’m going to blow the candle out.”

Well, I couldn’t see anything else to do, so I went over to the other bed and sat on it. He took off his belt and laid it on the table, right within arm’s reach. It was right under the candle and the light glinted on a bit of the blade that showed. It made my back feel itchy. He turned and looked at me a minute. He had tiny, gleaming eyes.

“Good-night,” he said.

Then he blew out the candle and lay down, boots and all.

I lay in the dark, hearing him breathe. It was a sort of heavy breathing; you couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or awake. Then I started wondering what to do.

I mustn’t go to sleep! That was the first thing. I could just see that dagger sink down inside of me if I did. No, I mustn’t go to sleep. Mustn’t go to sleep... mustn’t go...

Whether I’d been asleep an hour, or just a second, I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was still alive when I woke up.

And I could hear that breathing, loud and regular, but you couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. I lay, looking at darkness, and thinking.

I had to get out of there. But I had to get that paper first of all. I could have choked myself for not getting it before. The only thing to do was to get it quietly and then run for it.

And then I remembered a noise I heard while I was cooking the potatoes and I suddenly knew what it was. When my back was turned he had locked the door!

“Well,” I said to myself, “the more you think, the harder it gets, so you better quit thinking and act!”

And with that I sat up in bed — and lay down again. That bed squeaked as if all the devils in hell were tied inside!

The man moved a little, but he kept breathing hard.

I lay a while longer, looking up and wondering why the noise my heart was making didn’t wake him. Then I got up, oh, so quiet, and put my feet on the floor.

I stood up. Then I took a tiny little step and the boards didn’t creak. And I took another one.

All the time I was staring as hard as I could in the direction of his bed. There was a little night-light that came through the window across the room to his bed, but at first I couldn’t see anything. When I could make out something, I stopped short and so did my heart.

The man was sitting up in bed and looking right at me!

Well, I thought quick and walked on. I walked to the stove, right under his nose, and opened the door and stuck a log inside. Then I shut it and went back to bed.

I waited for him to lie down again. I turned over on my side, so’s I could make out the outline of his body in the dark... And I could just see him sitting there, not moving an inch, and staring at me. I knew he was staring at me, although I couldn’t make out his eyes. And he couldn’t see me at all, because I was in complete darkness.

Then his hand went out toward the table. It felt around, slowly and carefully, just as it did when he was behind the screen. It felt around... and then I saw, in the faint light, his knife gleaming as it rose from its sheath.

He put one foot on the floor. I couldn’t see it, and I couldn’t hear it, but I could make out his great body moving. He stood up; I could see his body rise.

All the time he looked in my direction, while I lay trembling all over and trying to remember how “Now I lay me” goes.

And then he turned and disappeared in the gloom.

Well, I decided there was something wrong. The next thing on the program was for him to come over and kill me, and I almost felt like calling to him and telling him he made a mistake.

But I listened and looked and I heard nothing and saw nothing. And then, suddenly, I knew what he was doing.

He was fishing through the body of the girl he had killed to take away all evidence!

And while I thought that, and was listening for some little sound, I heard something inside of me, an angel or a devil, shout:

“Now’s your chance!”

Well, I would have flopped at the thought, if I hadn’t already been in bed. But I listened and waited, and as nothing happened, I got braver and braver. And finally I sat up again.

There wasn’t any sound in the whole cabin. It was just as if the man had been swallowed up, and I was left alone with the dead body.

I got up and tiptoed across the floor, stooping, and feeling for the coal scuttle. Finally I touched it softly. I took a look at the screen and then got down on my hands and knees.

I took the ashes and laid them on the floor. I took them one by one, so as not to make any noise, but I did it as quick as I could. It was awfully hard to keep them from slipping from my hand. The muscles just seemed to have stopped working.

I got lower and lower without finding the paper. Then I stopped.

Sometimes you can tell that somebody’s around you without seeing or hearing them. Just a sixth sense, I reckon. I sat quiet. Then, slowly, I turned my head.

He was creeping toward me.

I could see him coming, but I couldn’t hear a sound. He came closer and closer. When he got right above me, he stopped and looked down.

I looked up. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t think of a word. I don’t think my tongue would have worked if I did.

He just looked at me. Then he said:

“What are you doing up?”

“The wood’s nearly gone. I’m hunting for good coals.”

I don’t know how I said it, but I did.

“All right. Go ahead and look. Don’t mind me.”

Well, I had to turn back and look. And all the time I felt him standing over me. I picked the coals over... And I heard him take a step closer and heard his breath nearer and nearer.

He grabbed my neck. I gave a yelp and ducked low.

That saved my life, for my head hit the coal-scuttle and it fell over, knocking me sideways... And I heard hard steel strike its tin side with an awful crack.

I was up in a second and running across the floor. I heard him swearing. I reckon he hurt his hand on the scuttle. I got to Jane’s end and beat it behind the screen. I didn’t have time to open that window, for everything was quiet now and I knew he was coming. So I stood behind the screen and waited... the dead body behind me, and him, creeping up, creeping up.

And I was waiting for him to jump around the corner, when I had a bright idea.

I knew he was right in front of the screen. I jumped on the edge of the bed and threw myself against the screen with all my might. He went over and the screen and me on top of him. And two jiffies later I had the window open and was outside.

I didn’t stop running until I brought up against a tree. Then I went to sleep.

I had an awful head when I woke up. But I forgot all about that when I saw how high the sun was. I just got up and loped, swift as anything, for the village.

All the fellows had moved from in front of the drug store down to the front of the courthouse, so I knew things must be interesting. When they saw me they all turned and hollered.

“There he is!” they yelled.

I couldn’t help glancing at the big limb Jim had pointed out the day before, but I kept going.

“What for did you make off you didn’t know nothing about this trial yesterday?” Jim asked me when I hove up. “They’ve been looking all over the lot for you!”

Well, I didn’t answer him, but I just pushed through into the courtroom. I reckon they had just started proceedings, for people had a sort of attitude of settling themselves and the clerk was droning a lot of stuff nobody was paying any attention to.

I kept pushing up front, and before anybody would let me pass he would have to stop me and tell me that everybody had been looking for me the day before. You could tell I was important. All the kids from school looked at me, jealous-like, and I could have had an awfully good time if I hadn’t been having such a rotten one.

You see, I felt something else in the air. I couldn’t quite tell what it was until I reached the bunch of hard guys in front. Then, as I started to push by one, he muttered:

“Save your breath, boy, save your breath. It’s all settled long ago.”

But just then the clerk saw me and shouted out:

“John Darrow!” so loud that the judge woke up.

Well, I shouted: “Present!” sort of getting it twisted with something else I couldn’t remember, and I walked up to the witness box. Then they started asking me a lot of fool questions, such as whether I was born or not. But all the time I was answering them I was looking out of the corner of my eye at different people.

Al was sitting directly beneath me. He looked lots better than he did the day before; like a person who knows it’s all over and is going to have a good time while it lasts. And he looked at me awfully friendly, almost as if he was sorry for me. And when he smiled he just as good as said:

“Don’t you worry, Jackie boy! I’m doomed anyhow and nothing you can say will make any difference. Just go right ahead and tell the truth and we’ll be as good friends as ever!”

I wanted to shout down to him that there was still a chance for him, but I decided I wouldn’t.

And then I saw Irene, over in the mourner’s bench, or whatever you call it. She didn’t look friendly like Al. You could tell by her pretty white face that she thought I was betraying them. I couldn’t look at her squarely.

The cop gave me a shove and I turned around to bat him in the eye. But he was pointing to the district attorney, and I’d suddenly realized I’d been wondering again and forgot to answer his questions.

Old Sparton was frowning at me.

“Don’t hesitate, boy!” he was saying. “What time was it when you were walking up the Avenue?”

“One o’clock.”

“One o’clock... Two o’clock is probably nearer right... And you saw somebody running away from something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose house was he running away from?”

“Old — Mr. Carr’s.”

“Mr. Carr’s house... At two o’clock in the morning.”

“One o’clock,” I interrupted him.

He glared at me. Then he said, leaning way forward:

“And who was the man who was running away from Mr. Carr’s house at two o’clock in the morning?”

I was aching and feeling sore and generally rotten. That always makes me obstinate. So I said:

“I won’t answer until you say it right!”

There was a giggle in the courtroom and the Judge pounded his gavel. Sparton frowned at me until his eyes almost touched. But he said, finally:

“Well, at one o’clock, then.”

I had to say it now. I tried to say it loud, as if it didn’t mean anything. But it was hardly more than a whisper, a whisper in the big, quiet room:

“Alfred Burnet.”

I could hear the big breath that everybody took. And I could feel Irene’s eyes without looking at them. Then Sparton asked me a few more questions, and after I’d answered them, he turned around and smiled as if it was all over. And I could see the hard guys tensioning, as if they were getting ready to run in when the jury pronounced the verdict. I could see a bit of rope dangling behind some of them.

Sparton lifted the German trench knife, sort of careless-like.

“Do you recognize this knife?” he asked, as if it didn’t much matter whether I did or not.

“Yes,” I said.

“Whose is it?”

“Alfred Burnet’s.”

He turned around and faced the jury and shrugged his shoulders.

That was enough for me. I stepped to the edge of the stand and grabbed the rail, hard.

“But Al Burnet didn’t do it, just the same!” I shouted at him.

You ought to have heard the silence in that courtroom! I could just feel everybody’s eyes coming out of their sockets. But I didn’t look. I had a hard enough job holding on.

Old Sparton swung around and looked at me. He was too surprised to be mad.

“What are you talking about, boy? Nobody asked your opinion about that!”

“No, but I’m giving it just the same!” I shouted.

With that the Judge said something and the cop started to shove me out of the box. But I ducked, and when I came up I shouted, quick:

“I’ll bet the same person killed Old Man Carr what killed Jane Brewster!”

“What?”

Judge Wharton jumped up and stared at me. All over the room there was a great commotion. Everybody looked at me as if I just dropped from Mars — except the kids at school. Gee, they were jealous! And I felt mighty cocky at having broken the news.

“What did you say?” the Judge shouted.

“Jane Brewster was murdered, sir,” I said in a quiet sort of voice. “Somebody killed her in a cabin in the woods about five miles from here. Stuffed something in her mouth and stabbed her in the heart.”

There was a gasp of horror all over the courtroom. Somebody started crying, a sort of smothered whimpering. It was little Ruthy Bingham, a girl who Jane had sort of mothered.

The Judge pulled himself together and looked very business-like, as if such things were mere trifles in a busy day.

“Officer Sullivan!” he ordered. “Find out from the witness the location of the cabin the moment he finishes testifying. The coroner and his men will go with you, examine the evidence and dispose of the body.”

Everybody settled down, and I thought that that thrill was over, at least until the end of this trial, when I happened to look at Sparton’s face.

It was as white as a sheet, and he was glaring at me so fierce that I was glad there was a cop around — for the first time in my life.

When the room got silent again, Sparton leaned forward.

“So little Jane Brewster has been murdered, has she?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He took a step toward me and spoke, very quietly.

“And you know who murdered her, do you?”

“Why—” I hesitated.

He took another step toward me; and he was smiling, sort of knowing.

“And you know who murdered her, do you? You, and you alone?”

I’d forgotten all about that part of it for the moment. I’d been alone with her when she was murdered; and I didn’t know who did it. I didn’t feel quite so proud now of having broken the news.

Sparton kept coming nearer and nearer, and everybody in the room, including myself, held our breaths until we almost busted. Then Sparton spoke again, very, very low.

“And you know who murdered her,” he said again. Then, suddenly, he raised his finger and pointed it at me. “Who murdered Jane Brewster?” he shouted.

I almost fainted away. I just held tight to the rail to keep myself up. But it wasn’t because I was feeling guilty like you do when you’re not and people think you are. It was because I was staring at Sparton’s hand. For on the finger he pointed with was a long, funny-shaped bloodstone!

I stood staring at him. And he stared at me, while his dirty grin grew wider and wider. And I could feel everybody else in the room staring at both of us.

Then I leaned way forward, and in a voice that was hoarse and not much better than a whisper, I said:

“You did it!”

Well, everybody busted. And it was a good five minutes before order was re-established and the cops had got Sparton’s hands off of me.

They held him away from me, while he kept saying:

“Prove it! prove it!” in a voice that sounded as though he was talking to the Angel of Death.

“By that ring on your finger!” I shouted back.

Then the Judge stood up.

“That’s a serious accusation, young man!” he said. “And the whole affair is very irregular. If you can’t offer some other proof than that, you had better descend and let us go on with the trial.”

Well, I was stumped — for a second. And then I remembered the thing that had made me in such a sweat to testify: the paper Jane had written. My hand had landed on it the night before, just as the woodsman collared me, and I found it clutched in my fingers that morning when I woke up in the woods. While I was hurrying to town, I glanced at it, and read enough to realize that Jane had had some dope on the real murderer; but I had reached the courthouse before I’d found out who did it, and I had slipped it in my pants pocket and forgot about it.

I fished it out and handed it to the Judge.

“This is what Jane Brewster was writing night before last when I found her in the woods, Your Honor,” I said. “She slipped it into the coal-scuttle and I only got it last night.”

The Judge settled himself and commenced to read.

“ ‘This is the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God,’ ” he read, “ ‘only you got to give me a two days’ start before you show this to anybody, whoever you are. I’m going to hide this, and then if somebody else gets blamed for Mr. Carr’s murder than the right person, I’ll write somebody where this is hid and he can show it to the police.

“ ‘I saw Mr. Carr just after he was murdered. I went up to his room, and he was lying just as still, and while I was looking at him, the door opened, and who was standing there but Horace Sparton with a knife in his hand!’ ”

“She’s a liar!”

The Judge stopped reading, and everything was dead still. Everybody looked at Horace Sparton. He was as white as a sheet, and he was standing up and clutching the back of his chair. The Judge glared at him a minute. Then he went on reading:

“ ‘Mr. Sparton was dressed like a woodsman and he had a black, false beard in his hand. I reckon it had slipped off and he was just putting it up to his face again. But when he saw me, he gave a yell, and I turned and ran.’ ”

So he had that costume on tap all the time for his dirty work! Sparton must have known that I was thinking of that, for, scared as he was, he turned and glanced at me. I was awfully sore at him, until I happened to look in back of him, and saw the hard-boiled eggs crowding up to the rail. The guy with the rope was rubbing his hands.

That made me a little sorry for him. But I was sorrier for his daughter, Miriam. She was having a pretty rough time of it! First her lover was accused of the murder, and they let up on him, only to prove it was her father. Everybody in town knew he wasn’t a model father, but still, your old man is your old man!

Miriam was sitting with her head very low and her face very white, and Al was looking at her as if he wasn’t awfully glad at what was happening. Lots of us felt sorry for her, while the Judge read on, until something he read made us all sit up and take notice and not feel so blooming sorry.

“ ‘I reckon I know why Mr. Sparton killed Mr. Carr,’ ” he read. “ ‘Mr. Carr got friendly and confidential with me one time and he told me a lot about himself. He told me he had a daughter once, which I had heard; but that after he was put in jail, his wife was so ashamed that she got sick and died. And before she died she made him promise to put their daughter somewhere where she wouldn’t ever know he was her father. So he gave her to Mr. Sparton, when they were East together, just before Mrs. Sparton died, and he was giving him a lot of money to support her.

“ ‘And then he made out his will to Mr. Sparton, instead of to her. But when he found that Al Burnet and she were in love with each other, that tickled him, because he liked Al, although he was too stingy to give him anything. And he told me that the day they were engaged, he was going to change the will, leaving everything to Al. He said he had told Mr. Sparton, too.’ ”

Well, all over the courtroom there was a stir. Miriam was staring at the Judge as if she couldn’t believe her ears. And Sparton had sunk into his seat with his back to the Judge, as if he was too weak ever to stand up again.

But he jumped up with a yell, as if he had sat on a tack. For out of the corner of his eyes he had seen the rope which the guy was fixing in a knot. Sparton stared at it a minute, and then at the man, who was watching him with a smile, and then, slowly, he swayed and fell over onto the floor.

That was the signal. With a howl like a lot of wild beasts just let out of their cages, the whole bunch rushed in and made for Sparton. Somebody put the rope around his neck, while the others kept the cops off. Then they dragged him out of the courtroom.

Sparton had about five more minutes of consciousness. They could have taken him out and done the job without waking him up, but that wasn’t their style. They wanted him to know what was happening and see how he took on.

The crowd stood around in a circle under the tree while he stood there and confessed it was all true.

“I got Burnet’s trench knife out of his house when he was away in Denver,” he said in a whisper, “because — because I wanted him to get the blame.”

“Is that all you got to say?” said one of the bums, sticking his jaw into Sparton’s face, real brave-like.

“That’s all.”

“Then all right, boys! Hoist her up!”

And that was enough for me. I turned around, and took my two legs, that were sort of wobbly, firmly in hand, so to speak, and sent them home.

It was six months before Al and Miriam were married. Everybody went to the wedding, for everybody knew now that Al was innocent. They believed him when he said he just went to his stepfather’s house to borrow enough money to get his sister a square meal. And anyhow, they wouldn’t have been awfully particular, even if they weren’t sure, seeing as how Al was a rich man now.

Al and Miriam were married in the big Carr house where he and Irene were living. They invited me to go, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have anything to wear. My suit had long ago got so that if I’d worn it, there’d be a law against it, and I’d thrown it away and had been wearing my other suit regular since spring.

I walked by the house, which was all lighted up, although it was hardly dark. Then I went across the town and somehow found myself around the house where they used to live. Then I saw my old place on the fence doing nothing, so I climbed up on it. And I started wondering.

I was wondering what was the sense in living, and I was just winning the argument, when I heard a little noise.

I looked up and saw Irene standing there.

“What are you doing on the fence?” she asked.

“Just wondering.”

It sounded silly, but I was. I was wondering now if it was too dark to see the color of a fellow’s cheeks and I was hoping it was. Your cheeks just couldn’t help acting funny if you saw a girl as pretty as Irene standing there.

“And we were wondering, too,” she said. “We were wondering where you’ve been all afternoon.”

“Why, you see,” I said, and commenced fidgeting, so that I almost fell off the fence, “you see — you see, Irene, I just couldn’t go into anybody else’s house dressed like this!”

“Nobody asked you to go into anybody else’s house,” she said.

That made me feel terrible. I knew I’d received an invitation, but I decided they’d made a mistake and sent it to me instead of the right party. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing happened. I was just wishing the fence would bust and send me flying, when Irene spoke again.

“Nobody asked you to go to anybody else’s house,” she said again.

Then she reached up and gently took my hand. And in a very, very soft voice, she said:

“Come home, Jackie boy! Come home!”

That was a year ago. But Al’s and Miriam’s and Irene’s home has been my home ever since. In another couple of years, though, when I start getting rich, there’s going to be a secession from that home and another one started up with just two in it.

Two to begin with, Irene just said — But that’s another story.