 Chapter 6 I breathed more freely, notwithstanding that the gas, having partially diffused upwards to the level of the opening, now began to filter through to my side. I waited a minute or two, listening to the breathing of the two murderers as it grew moment by moment, more stenorious and irregular. And then, having filled up the stove, went down to the first floor and sat a while by the open window, to breathe the relatively fresh air. All was now quiet in the street. No doubt the guard had been strengthened, but I did not look out. It was as well not to be seen at that hour in the morning. As I sat by the window I thought about the two men in that deadly room. It was a thousand pitties that they should be lost to science, yet there was no help for it. Even if I had decided to acquire them I could not have done so, for by the very worst of luck I had used up my last barrel and had neglected to lay in a fresh stock. But of course, the police knew that they were there. I rested for half an hour or so and then went upstairs to see how matters were progressing. No light now came through the opening in the wall, for the paraffin lamp had either burned out or been extinguished by the accumulating gas. I listened attentively. The harsh metallic ticking of a cheap American clock was plainly, even intrusively, audible. Otherwise no sound came from that chamber of death. I drew the sliding panel right back, held aside the dangling garments, and, climbing through into the cupboard, pushed open the doors. A faint glimmer of light from the street made dimly visible the mattress on the floor and the two indistinct dark shapes stretched out on it. I stepped quickly across the room, breathing as little as possible of the unspeakably foul air and struck a wax match. It burned dimly and smokily, but showed me the two murderers, lying in easy postures, their faces livid and ghastly in hue but peaceful enough in expression. When I lowered the match its flame dwindled and turned blue, and at eighteen inches from the floor it went out to sift dipped in water. At that height the heavy gas must have been nearly pure. The room was a veritable grotto-delcain. I stooped quickly, holding my breath, and felt the wrists of the two men. They were chilly to the touch and no vestige of pulse was perceptible. I shook them both vigorously but failed to elicit any responsive movement. They were quite limp and inert and I had no doubt that they were dead. My work was done. The policemen were now safe, whatever follies they might commit, and it only remained for me to remove the traces of the fairy godmother who had labored through the night to save them from their own exuberant courage. Closing back through the opening I drew away the now unnecessary pipe, closed the two panels and carried the little stove down to my bedroom. I looked at the unruffled bed, mute but eloquent witness to the night's activity, and deciding as a measure of prudence to give it the appearance of having been slept in, took off my boots and crept in between the sheets. But I was not, in the least, agreed drowsy. Quite the contrary, I was all agogged to see the end of the comedy in which I had, all unknown, taken the leading part, so that after tossing about for a few minutes I sprang out of bed, resumed my boots and poured out a basin full of water to refresh myself by wash. And now once more observed the strangely indirect lines of causation. The towels on the horse were damp and none too clean. I flung them into the dirty linen basket and dragged open the drawer in which the clean ones were kept. It was the bottom drawer of a cheap pine chest that I had bought in White Chapel High Street. That chest of drawers was of unusual size. It was four feet wide by nearly five feet high, and the two bottom drawers were each fully eighteen inches deep, and were far larger than was necessary for my modest stock of household linen. I pulled out the bottom drawer then, and as its great cavity yawned before me, it offered not an unnatural suggestion. The length of an average man's head and trunk is under thirty-six inches. Allowing a few inches more for his feet and ankles, a cavity forty-eight inches long is amply sufficient for his accommodation. Flinging out the towels and sheets that lay in the drawer, I got in and lay down with my knees drawn up. Of course there was room and despair. It was an interesting fact but not very applicable to the present circumstances. Still it set me thinking. I went into the front room and glanced out the open window. A faint lightning of the murky sky heralded the approach of dawn, and from afar came the murmuring commencing of traffic out on High Street. I was about to turn away when my ear caught a new and unusual sound rising above that distant murmur. The measured tread of feet mingled with the clatter of horse's hooves, and a heavy metallic rumbling. I looked out cautiously in the direction whence the sounds came, and was positively stupefied with amazement. At the end of the street I saw, by the light of the lamps, a company of soldiers appearing round the corner, and taking up a position across the road. I watched breathlessly. Then, at a sign from the officer, the men spread mats on the muddy ground and lay down on them, and then appeared a train of horses, dragging a field-piece or quick-firing gun, which was halted behind the infantry and unlimbered. A minute later the black shapes of a number of soldiers appeared on the skyline as they crept along the parapets of the opposite houses where, save for their heads and the barrels of their rifles, they presently disappeared. It seems that I had misjudged the police in the matter of caution. It almost seemed that my labours had been useless, for surely these portentious preparations indicated some masterpiece of strategy. What an anticlimax it would be when the defenders of the fort were found to be dead, but what still a greater anticlimax if they were not there at all? At this moment a police sergeant strolled down the middle of the road and, observing me, motioned me with his hand to get inside out of harm's way. I obeyed with grim amusement, thinking of that absurd anticlimax, and somehow this idea began to connect itself with those two bottom drawers. But the casks were the difficulty, and the cooper from which I had obtained them sometimes kept me waiting nearly a week before supplying them, for I was only a small customer, and that would never do even at this time of year. Besides the police would make a rigid search, not that that would have mattered if I could have made proper arrangements for the concealment and removal of the specimens, but unfortunately I could not. The specimens would have to go, to be borne out ingloriously in the face of the besieging force, limp and passive, like a couple of those very helpless guise that are want to be produced by what Mrs. Kosminski would call their children's. There would be a certain grim appropriateness in the incident, for this was the 5th of November. The generation of new ideas is chiefly a matter of association. The ideas guise, Mrs. Kosminski, and the 5th of November, unconsciously formed themselves into a group from which in an instant there was evolved a new and startling train of thought. At first it seemed wild enough, but when the two bottom drawers joined in the synthetic process a complete and consistent scheme began to appear. A flush of pleasurable excitement swept over me, and as I raced upstairs fresh details added themselves and fresh difficulties were propounded and disposed of. I split open the panels, stepped through and, holding my breath, strode across the poisoned room with only one quick glance at the two still forms on the mattress. Removing the barricading chair I unlocked and unbolted the door and passed out, closing in after me. Mrs. Kosminski's room was at the back, a dreadful nest of dirt and squalor, piled almost to the ceiling with unclassifiable rubbish. The air was so stifling that I was tempted to raise the heavily curtained window a couple of inches, and thereby got a useful idea when, peeping over the curtain, I saw the flat leads of a projecting lower story. The merchandise piled on all sides and even under the bed included very second-hand wearing apparel, sheets, blankets, crockery and toys. Among them were the fireworks, the masks and other appliances for commemorating the never-to-be-forgotten, gum-powder treason, and a couple of large balls of dark-colored cord sometimes used by coasters for securing their loads. That gave me an idea, too, as did the frowsily smart female garments. I appropriated four of the largest masks and a quantity of oakum for wigs, some colored paper streamers and hat frills, two huge and disreputable dresses, Mrs. Kuzminski's own, I suspected, the skirts of which I crammed with straw from a hamper, two large sized ragged suits of clothes, a woman's straw hat, four pairs of men's gloves, and the biggest top hat that I could find. These I put apart in a heap with one of the balls of cord. From the other ball I cut off some eight fathoms of cord and, poking it out through the opening in the window, let it drop on the leads beneath. Then I conveyed my spoil in one or two journeys across the murderer's room, passed it through the opening, and closed the panel after me. Prudence suggested that I should dispose of these things first, and accordingly I stowed two masks, two pairs of gloves, one suit of clothes, and one dress in the large chest of drawers. The rest I carried down to the backyard, where there was already a quantity of lumber belonging to a neighboring green grocer. Returning upstairs I called in at the bedroom to transfer the scanty contents of the two large drawers into the upper ones, and then proceeded once more to the second floor front. Time was passing and the glimmer of the gray dawn was beginning to struggle in faintly through the dirty windows. As I drew back the slide I became aware of a sound which, soft as it was, rang the knell of my newly formed hopes. I had closed the door of the murderer's room and locked it, but had not shot the bolt. Now I could distinctly hear someone fumbling gently at the keyhole, apparently with a picklock. It was most infuriating. At the very last moment, when success was within my grasp, I was to be foiled and all my neatly laid plans defeated, and to make it a thousand times worse I had not even taken the precaution to examine the dead miscreant's hair. With an angry and foolish exclamation I reached through the opening and drew the cupboard doors, too, leaving only a small shink. Then I shut myself in my own cupboard to exclude the dim light, and closing the panel to within an inch, waited on events with my hand on the knob, ready to shut it at a moment's notice. The great strategic move was about to begin, and I was curious to see what it would be. The bolt of the lock shot back, the door creaked softly. There was a pause, and then a voice whispered, Why, they seem to be asleep. Keep them covered, Smith, and shoot if they move. What footfalls advanced across the room? Someone gave a choking cough, and then a brassy voice fairly shouted, Why, man, they're dead! My lord! What a let-off! An unsteady laugh told of the effort it had caused the worthy officer to take this frightful risk. Yes, said another voice, they're dead enough, they've cheated us after all. Not that I complain of that, but my eyes, sir, what a cell! Think of all those tommies in that machine-gun—ha, ha! Oh, lord! I suppose the beggars poisoned themselves when they saw the game was up. He laughed again, and the laugh ended in a fit of coughing. Not they, Sergeant, said the other. It was that coke-stove that gave them their ticket. Can't you smell it? And by jove it will give us our ticket if we don't clear out. We'll just run down and report and send for a couple of stretchers. Hadn't I better wait here, sir, while you're gone? Asked the sergeant. Lord, no, man, what for? We shall want three stretchers, if you do. Come along, poo, leave the door open. I listened incredulously to their retreating footsteps. It seemed hardly possible that they should be so devoid of caution, and yet, why not? The men were dead, and dead men are not addicted to sudden disappearances. But this case was going to be an exception. I had given the specimens up for lost when I heard the police enter, but now. I opened the slide, sprang through the opening and strove over to the mattress. Then after the other I picked up the prostrate ruffians, carried them across, and bundled them through the aperture. Then I came through myself, shut the cupboard doors, closed both panels carefully, shut up my own cupboard, and carried the specimens down to my bedroom. With their knees drawn up they packed quite easily in the large drawers. I shut them in, locked the drawers, pocketed the key, washed my hands and went down to the parlor where I rapidly laid the breakfast table. At any moment now the police might come to inspect, and whenever they came they would find me ready. I did not waste time on breakfast, that could wait, meanwhile I fell to work with the materials in the yard. In addition to the hand-cart there was now a costler's barrel, the property of a green grocer, to whom also belonged a quantity of lumber, including some bundles of steaks and several hampers filled with straw. With these materials, and those that I had borrowed from Mrs. Kosminski, I began rapidly to build up a pair of life-sized guys, one male and one female. I put them together very roughly and sat them side by side in the barrel, leaning against the wall, and to each I attached a large ticket on which I scrawled the name of the person it represented, one being the highly unpopular minister, Mr. Todd Leakes, and the other the notorious Mrs. Gamway. They were very sketchily built and would have dropped to pieces that had touched, but that was of no consequence. The time factor was the important one, and I had worked at such speed that I had huddled them into a pretty plausible completeness when the inevitable peel at the house-bell disturbed my labours. I darted into the parlour, crammed a piece of bread into my mouth, and rushed to the shop-door, chewing frantically. As I opened the door, an agitated police inspector burst in, followed by a sergeant. Good morning, gentlemen, I said swavly, hair-cutting or shaving. I shall not record the inspector's reply. I was really shocked. I had no idea that responsible officials used such language. In effect, they wished to look over the premises. Of course I gave them instant permission, and followed them in their tour of inspection on the pretext of showing them over the house. The inspector was in a very bad temper, and the sergeant was obviously depressed. They conversed in low tones as they stumped up the stairs, and I heard the sergeant say something about an awful suck-in. Oh, don't talk a bit, snapped the inspector. It's enough to make a cat-sick. But what beats me is how those devils could have stuck the air of that room. It would have settled my hash in five minutes. Yes, agreed the sergeant, and how they could have let themselves down from that window without being spotted. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen the court. The constables must have been asleep. Yes, grunted the inspector. Thick-headed louts. Let's have a look out here. He strode to the second floor back and threw open the window. Now you see, he continued, what I mean. This house has no connection with the next one. That projecting wing cuts it off. This backyard opens into Bell's alley. The yard next door opens into Kasha Court. That's the way they went. They couldn't have got to this house, excepting by the roof. And we've seen that they went down, not up. He stuck his head out the window and looked down sourly at the guys. Those things yours, he asked gruffly, pointing at the effigies. No, I answered. I think one of Piper's men is getting them ready to take round. The inspector grunted and moved away. He walked into the front room, looked in the cupboard, glanced round, and went downstairs. On the first floor he made a perfunctory inspection of the rooms, glancing in at my bedroom, and then went down to the ground floor. From thence the two officers descended to the cellar, which they examined more thoroughly, even prodding the sawdust in the bin, and so up to the backyard. Here, at the sight of the guys, the sergeant's woeful countenance brightened somewhat. Ha! he exclaimed. Mrs. Gamway, I saw a good deal of her when I was in the Westminster Division. I've often thought I'd like to. And by Jiminy I will. He squared up fiercely at the helpless-looking effigy of the lady, and, with a vicious round-arm punch, sent its unstable head flying across the yard. The blow, and its effect, seemed to rouse his destructive instincts, for he returned to the attack with such ferocity that in a few seconds he had reduced not only the fictitious Mrs. Gamway, but the right honourable Todd Leakes, also, into a heap of ruin. Stop that fool-erase, Smith, snarled the inspector. You'll give the poor devil the trouble of building them up all over again. Come along. He unlocked the gate and stood for a moment looking back at me. I suppose you've heard nothing in the night, he said. Not a sound, I answered, adding. I shan't open the shop until the evening, and I shall probably go out for the day. Would you like to have the key? The inspector shook his head. No, I don't want the key. I've seen all I want to see. Good morning. He stumped out, followed by his subordinate. I drew a deep breath as I relocked the gate. I was glad he had refused the key, though I had thought it prudent to make the offer. Now I was at liberty to complete my arrangements at leisure. My first proceeding, after locking up the shop, was to rig up with the greengrocer's steaks and Mrs. Kosminski's court a pair of firm standards to support the guys. Then I took a hearty breakfast, after which I repaired to my bedroom with a hamper of straw, a bundle of small steaks and a quantity of old rags. The process of converting the specimens into quite convincing guys was not difficult. Tying up the heads in large pieces of rag, I fastened the big masks to the fronts of the globular bundles and covered the remainder with the masses of oakum to form appropriate wigs. Each figure was then clothed in the bulky garments borrowed from Mrs. Kosminski's stock and well-stuffed with straw, portions of which I allowed to protrude at all the apertures. A suitable stiffness was imparted to the limbs by pieces of stick poked up inside the clothing and smaller sticks gave the correct starfish-like spread of the gloved hands. When they were finished, the illusion was perfect. As the two effigies sat on the floor with their backs against the wall, stiff, staring, bloated and grotesquely horrible, not a soul would have suspected them. I carried the male guy down to the yard, sat him on the barrow and put on his hat, taking with me the remains of the ruined guys, which I decided to put away in the drawers. I returned for the second effigy. I lashed the two figures very securely to the standards, fixing on their hats firmly and attached the name cards. Then I went into the shop to attend to my own appearance. I had brought back from my Bloomsbury house the shabby overcoat and battered hat that I had worn on the last few expeditions. These I now assumed, and having fixed on my cheek a large cross of sticking plaster, which pulled down my eyebrow and pulled up the corner of my mouth, begrimmed my face, reddened my nose and carefully tinted in a not-too-empathetic black eye, I was sufficiently transmogrified to deceive even my intimate friends. Now I was ready to start, and now was the crucial moment. I went out into the yard, unlocked the gate, trundled the barrow out into the alley and locked the gate behind me. At the moment there was not a soul in sight, but from the street close by came the unmistakable murmur of a large crowd. I must confess that I felt a little nervous. The next few minutes would decide my fate. I grasped the handles of the barrow and started forward resolutely. As I rounded the curve of the alley, a densely packed throng appeared ahead. Faces turned toward me and broke into grins. The murmur rose into a dull roar, and as the people drew aside to make way for me, I plunged into the heart of the throng and raised my voice in a husky chant. Remember, remember the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. Through the interstices of the crowd I could see the soldiers still drawn up by the curb and even the machine gun was yet in position. Suddenly the inspector and the sergeant appeared bustling through the crowd. The former caught sight of me and, waving his hand angrily, shouted, take that thing away from here, move him out of the crowd, Maloney, and a gigantic constable pounced on me with a broad grin, snatched the barrow handles out of my hand and started off at a trot that made the effigies rock in the most alarming manner. Huller Behoiz shouted the grinning constable and the Behoiz complied with raucous enthusiasm. At the outskirts of the crowd, constable Maloney resigned in my favor and it was at this moment that I noticed a manifest plain-clothes officer observing my exhibits with undue attention. But here fortune favored me. For the same instant I saw a man attempt to pick a pocket under the officer's very nose. The pickpocket caught my eye and moved off quickly. I pulled up and pointing at the thief, bawled out, stop that man, stop him. The pickpocket flung himself into the crowd and made off. The startled loafers drew hastily away from him. Men shouted, women screamed, and the plain-clothes officer started in pursuit. And in the whirling confusion that followed, I trundled away briskly into Middlesex Street and headed for Spittle Fields. My progress through the squalid streets was quite triumphal. A large juvenile crowd attended me with appropriate vocal music and adults cheered from the pavements, though no one embarrassed me with gifts. But for all my outward gaiety I was secretly anxious. It was barely ten o'clock, and many hours of the jury November day had yet to run before it would be safe for me to approach my destination. The prospect of tramping the streets for some ten or twelve hours with this very conspicuous appendage was far from agreeable to say nothing of the increasing risk of detection. And I look forward to it with gloomy forebodings. If a suspicion arose, I could be traced with the greatest ease, and in any case I should be spent with fatigue before evening. Reflecting on these difficulties I had decided to seek some retired spot where I could dismount the effigies, cover them with a tarpon that was rolled up in the barrel and take a rest, when once more circumstances befriended me. All through the night and the morning the ordinary winter haze had hung over the town. But now, by reason of a change of wind, the haze began rapidly to thicken into a definite fog. I set down the barrel and watched with thankfulness the mass opaque of yellow vapor filling the street and blotting out the sky. As it thickened and the darkness closed in, the children strayed away and only one solitary loafer remained. I would look for you, mate, this year, frog, he remarked. Etter, you've took all that trouble, too. He little knew how much. But it's no go. You better get him home once you can find your way. This is going to be a blacken. I thanked him for his sympathy and moved on into the darkening vapor. Close to Spittle Square I found a quiet corner where I quickly dismounted the guys, covered them with the tarpon, and, urged by new anxiety from the rapidly growing density of the fog, groped my way onto Norton Fullgate. Here I moved forward as quickly as I dared, turned up Great Eastern Street and at length, to my great relief, came out onto Old Street. It was none too soon. As I entered the well-known thoroughfare, the fog closed down into impenetrable obscurity. The world of visible objects was extinguished and replaced by chaos of confused sounds. Even the end of my barrow faded away into spectral uncertainty, and the curb against which I kept my left wheel grinding looked thin and remote. Opportunist the fog was, it was not without its dangers, of which the most immediate was that I might lose my way. I set down the barrow and attaching the little compass that I always carry in my watchguard, laid it on the tarpon. My course, as I knew, lay about west-south-west, and with the compass before me I could not go far wrong. Indeed its guidance was invaluable. Without it I could never have found my way through those miles of intricate streets. When a stationary wagon or other obstruction sent me out into the road, it enabled me to pick up the curb again unerringly. It mapped out the corners of the intersecting streets. It piloted me over the wide crossings of the city road and Aldersgate Street and kept me happily confident of my direction as I groped my way like a fog-bound ship on an invisible sea. I went as quickly as was safe, but very warily, for a collision might have been fatal. Listening intently, with my eye on the compass and my wheel at the curb, I pushed on through the yellow void until a shadowy post at a street corner revealed itself by its parish initials as that at the intersection of Red Line Street and Theobald's Row. I was nearly home. Another ten minutes' careful navigation brought me to a corner which I believed to be the one opposite my own house. I turned back a dozen paces, put down the barrel and crossed the pavement, with a compass in my hand lest I should not be able to find the barrel again. I came against the jam of a street door. I groped across the door itself. I found the keyhole of the familiar yell pattern. I inserted my key and turned it and the door of the museum entrance opened. I had brought my ship into port. I listened intently. Someone was creeping down the street, hugging the railings. I closed the door to let him pass and heard the groping hands sweep over the doors he crawled by. Then I went out, steered across to the barrel, picked up one of the specimens and carried it into the hall, where I laid it on the floor, returning immediately for the other. When both the specimens were safely deposited, I came out, softly closing the door after me with the key and once more took up the barrel handles. Slowly I trundled the invaluable little vehicle up the street, never losing touch of the curb, flinging the stakes and cordage into the road as I went until I had brought it to the corner of a street about a quarter of a mile from my house. And there I abandoned it, making my way back as fast as I could to the museum. My first proceeding on my return was to carry my treasures into the laboratory, light the gas and examine their hair. I had really some hopes that one of them might be the man I sought. But alas, it was the old story. They both had coarse black hair of the Mongoloid type. My enemy was still to seek. Having cleaned away my makeup, I spent the rest of the day pushing forward the preliminary processes so that these might be completed before a decays of facing fingers should obliterate the details of the intercommentary structures. In the evening I returned to Whitechapel and opened the shop, proposing to purchase the dummy skeletons on the following day and to devote the succeeding nights and early mornings to preparation of the specimens. The bearer turned up next day in the possession of an undeniable tramp who was trying to sell it for ten chillings and who was accused of having stolen it but was discharged for want of evidence. I compensated the green grocer for the trouble occasioned by my carelessness in leaving the back gate open and thus the incident came to an end, with one important exception for there was a very startling sequel. On the day after the expedition I had the curiosity to open the panel and go through into the room that the murderers had occupied, which had now been locked up by the police. Looking round the room, my eye lighted on a shabby cloth cap lying on the still undisturbed mattress just below the pillow. I picked it up and looked it over curiously. For by its size I could see that it did not belong to either of the men whom I had secured. I took it over to the curtained window and carefully inspected its lining. And suddenly I perceived, clinging to the coarse cloth, a single short hair, which, even to the naked eye, had a distinctly unusual appearance. With a trembling hand I drew out my lens to examine it more closely and, as it came into the magnified field, my heart seemed to stand still. For, even at that low magnification, its character was unmistakable. It looked like a tiny string of pale gray beads. Grasping it in my fingers I dashed through the opening, slammed the panels too and rushed down to the parlor where I kept a small microscope. My agitation was so intense that I could hardly focus the instrument. But at last the object on the slide came into view, a broad, variegated stripe, with its dark medulla and the light rings of air bubbles at regular intervals. It was a typical ringed hair. And what was the inference? The hair was almost certainly Pyrogoths. Pyrogoth was a burglar, a ruthless murderer, and he had ringed hair. The man whom I saw was a burglar, a ruthless murderer, and had ringed hair. Then Pyrogoth was my man. It was bad logic, but the probabilities were overwhelming, and I had had the villain in the hollow of my hand and he had gone forth unscathed. I ground my teeth with impotent rage. It was maddening. All the old passion and yearnings for retribution surged up in my breast once more. My interest in the new specimens almost died out. I wanted Pyrogoth, and it was only the newborn hope that I should yet lay my hand on him that carried me through that time of bitter disappointment. End of chapter six. Chapter seven, part one of the uttermost farthing. This Slippervox recording is in the public domain, recording by Mary Ann. The uttermost farthing by R. Austin Freeman. Chapter seven, the uttermost farthing, part one. Intense was the curiosity with which I turned to the last entry in Humphrey Chaloner's museum archives. Not that I had any doubt as to the issue of the adventure that it recorded. I had seen the specimen numbered 25 in the shallow box, and its identity had long since been evident, but this fact mitigated my curiosity not at all. The archives had furnished a continuous narrative, surely one of the strangest ever committed to writing, and now I was to read the climax of that romantically terrible story, to witness the final achievement of that object that my poor friend had pursued with such unswerving pertinacity. I extract the entire entry with the exception of one or two passages near the end, for the reasons the omission of which will be obvious to the reader. Circumstances attending the acquirement of the specimen numbered 25 in the anthropological series, A, osteology, B, reduced dry preparations. The months that followed the events connected with the acquirement of the specimens 23 and 24 brought me nothing but aching suspense and hope deferred. The pursuit of the common criminal I had abandoned since I had got sent of my real quarry. The concussor lay idle in the basket, the seller's steps were greased no more. I had but a passive role to play until the hour should strike to usher in the final scene, if that should ever be. Though the term of my long exile in East London was drawing nigh, its approach was unseen by me. I could but wait, and what is harder than waiting? I had made cautious inquiries among the alien population, but no one knew Pyrogoth, or at least, admitted any knowledge of him, and asked to the police, when they had made a few arrests and then released the prisoners, they appeared to let the matter drop. The newspapers were, of course, more active. One of them described circumstantially how the three anarchists who escaped from the house in Sal Street had been seen together in an East End restaurant, and several others followed from day to day the supposed whereabouts of a mysterious person known as Paul the Plummer, whom the police declared to be a picturesque myth. But for me there was one salient fact. Of those three Ruffians, one was still at large, and no one seemed to have any knowledge of him. It was some four months later that I again caught up the scent. A certain Friday evening, early in February, found me listlessly tidying up the shop, for the Jewish Sabbath had begun and customers were few. But about eight o'clock a man strode in jauntily, hung up his hat and seated himself in the operating chair, and at that moment a second man entered and sat down to wait. I glanced at this ladder, and in an instant my gorge rose at him, I cannot tell why, to the scientific mind intuitions are abhorrent. They are mostly wrong and wholly unreasonable. But as I looked at that man, a wave of instinctive dislike and suspicion swept over me. He was indeed an ill-looking fellow enough, a broad, lozen-shaped tartar face, with great cheekbones and massive jaws, a low forehead surmounted by a dense brush of upstanding grayish hair, beatling brows and eyes deep-set, fierce and furtive, combined to make a sufficiently unprepossessing countenance. Nor was his manner more pleasing. He scowled forbiddingly at me. He scrutinized the other customer, craning sideways to survey him in the mirror. He looked about the shop and he stared inquisitively at the parlor door. Every movement was expressive of watchful, uneasy suspicion. I tried to avoid looking at him lest my face should betray me, and, to divert my thoughts, concentrated my attention on the other customer. The ladder unconsciously gave me every assistance in doing so. Though by no means a young man, he was the vainest and most dandified client I had ever had under my hands. He stopped me repeatedly to give exhaustive directions as to the effect that he desired me to produce. He examined himself in the glass and consulted me anxiously as to the exact disposition of an artificially curled forelock. I cursed him inwardly, for I wanted him to be gone and leave me alone with the other man. But for that very reason, and that I might conceal my impatience, I did his bidding and treated him with elaborate care. But now and again my glance would stray to the other man. And as I caught his fierce, suspicious eye, like the eye of a hunted animal, I would look away quickly lest he should read what was in my mind. At length I had finished with my dandy client. I had brushed his hair to a nicety and had even curled his forelock with heated tongs. With a sigh of relief I took off the cloth and waited for him to rise. But he rose not. Stroking his cheek critically he decided that he wanted shaving and, cursing him in my heart, I had to comply. I had acquired some reputation as a barber and, I think, deserved it. I could put a perfect edge on a razor and I wielded the instrument with a sensitive hand and habitual care. My client appreciated my skill and complimented me patronizingly in very fair English, though with a slight Russian accent, delaying me intolerably to express his approval. When I had shaved him he asked for pink powder to be applied to his chin and when I had powdered him he directed me to shape his mustache with Pate Hungris, a process which he superintended with anxious care. At last the fellow was actually finished. He got up from the chair and surveyed himself in the large wall mirror. He turned his head from side to side and tried to see the back of it. He smiled into the mirror, raised his eyebrows, frowned and, in fact, tried a variety of expressions and effects, including a slight and graceful bow. Then he approached the glass to examine a spot on his cheek, leaned against it with outspread hands to inspect his teeth and finally put out his tongue to examine that too. I almost expected that he would ask me to brush it. However he did not. Adjusting his neck tie delicately he handed me my fee with a patronizing smile and remarked, you are a good barber and you have taste and you take trouble. I give you a penny for yourself and I shall come to you again. As the door closed behind him I turned to the other customer. He rose, walked over to the operating chair and sat down sullenly, keeping an eye on me all the time and something in his face, expressive of suspicion, uneasiness and even fear, seemed to hint at something unusual in my own appearance. It was likely enough, hard as I had struggled to smother the tumult of emotions that seethed within me, some disturbance must have reached the surface, some light in the eye, some tension of the mouth to tell of the fierce excitement, the raging anxiety that possessed me. I was afraid to look at him for fear frightening him away. Was he the man? Was this the murderer, Piragov, the slayer of my wife? The question rang in my ears as, with a far from steady hand, I slowly lathered his face. Instinct told me that he was but even in my excitement reason rejected a mere unanalyzable belief. For what is an intuition? Brutely stated, it is simply a conclusion reached without premises. I had always disbelieved in instinct and intuition and I disbelieve still. But what had made me connect this man with Piragov? He was clearly a Russian. He looked like a villain. He had the manner of a nihilist or violent criminal of some kind. But all this was nothing. It formed no rational basis for the conviction that possessed me. There was his hair, of course, a wiry mop of queer grayish-brown. It might well, from its color, be ringed hair. And if it was, I should have little doubt of the man's identity. But was it? I was getting on in years and could not see near objects clearly without my spectacles and I had laid down my spectacles somewhere in the parlor. As I lathered his face, I leaned over him to look at his hair more closely but he shrank away in fierce alarm and, after all, my eyesight was not good enough. Once I tried to get out my lens but he challenged me furiously as to my object and I put it away again. I dared not provoke him to violence for if he had struck me, I should have killed him on the spot and he might be the wrong man. The operation of shaving him was beset with temptations from moment to moment. Forgotten anatomical details revived in my memory. I found myself tracing through the coarse skin those underlying structures that were so near to hand. Now I was at the angle of the jaw and as the ringed blade swept over the skin I traced the edge of the strap-like muscle and mentally marked the spot where it crossed the great carotid artery. I could even detect the pulsation of the vessel, how near it was to the surface, a little dip of the razor's beak at that spot. But still I had no clear evidence that he was the right man, a mere impression, a feeling of physical repulsion unsupported by any tangible fact, was not enough to act on. One moment a savage impatience for retribution urged me to take the chance to fell him with a blow and fling him down into the cellar. The next, my reason stepped in and bade me to hold my hand and wait for proof and all the time he watched me like a cat and kept his hands thrust into the hip pockets of his coat. Again and again these mental oscillations occurred. Now I was simply and savagely homicidal and now I was rational, almost judicial. Now the vital necessity was to prevent his escape and yet, again, I shrank from the dreadful risk of killing an innocent man. What the issue might have been I cannot say but suddenly the door opened, a burly Carter entered and sat down and the opportunity was gone. The Russian waited for no lengthy inspection in the glass like his predecessor. As soon as he was finished he sprang from the chair, slapped down his coppers in payment and darted out of the shop, only too glad to take himself off in safety. There must have been something very sinister in my appearance. The Carter seated himself in the chair and I fell to work on him mechanically, but my thoughts were with the man who was gone. What a fiasco it had been. After waiting all these years, I had met a man whom I suspected to be the very wretch I sought. I had actually been alone with him and I had let him go. The futility of it, before my eyes the grinning tenants of the great wall-case rose in reproach. The little, impassive faces in those shallow boxes seemed to look at me and ask why they had been killed. I had let the man go and he would certainly never come to my shop again. True, I should know him again but what better chance could I ever have of identifying him? And then again came the unanswerable question. Was he really the man, after all? So my thoughts fluttered to and fro. Constant only was a feeling of profound dejection, a sense of unutterable, irretrievable failure. The Carter, a regular customer, rose and looked to scans at me as he rubbed his face with the towel. He remarked that I seemed to be feeling a bit dull tonight, paid his fee and, with a civil good evening, took his departure. When he had gone I stood by the chair wrapped in a gloomy reverie. Had I failed, finally? Was my long quest at an end with my object unachieved? It almost seemed so. I raised my eyes and they fell on my reflection in the large mirror and suddenly it was born in on me that I was an old man. The passing years of labor and mental unrest had left deep traces. My hair, which was black when I first came to the East, was now snow white and the face beneath it was worn and wrinkled and aged. The sands of my life were running out of pace. Soon the last grains would trickle out of the glass and then would come the end, the futile end, with the task still unaccomplished. And for this I had dragged out these 20 weary years ever looking for repose and eternal reunion. How much better to have spent those years in the piece of the tomb by the dear companion of my sunny hours? I stepped up to the glass and looked more closely at my face to mark the crow's feet and intersecting wrinkles in the shrunken skin. Yes, it was an old, old face, a weary face, too, that spoke of sorrow and anxious thought and strenuous, unsatisfying effort. And presently it would be a dead face, calm and peaceful enough then, and the wretch who had wrought all the havoc would still stalk abroad with his heavy debt unpaid. Something on the surface of the mirror interposed between my eye and the reflection, slightly blurring the image. I focused on it with some difficulty and then saw that it was a group of finger marks, the prints made by the greasy fingers of my dandy customer when he had leaned on the glass to inspect his teeth. As they grew distinct to my vision, I was aware of a curious sense of familiarity, at first merely subconscious and not strongly attracting my attention. But this state lasted only for a few brief moments. Then the vague feeling burst into full recognition. I snatched out my lens and brought it to bear on those astounding impressions. My heart thumped furiously. A feeling of awe, of triumph, of fierce joy and fiercer rage surged through me and mingled with profound self-contempt. There could be no mistake. I looked at those fingerprints too often. Every ridge mark, every loop and whirl of the varying patterns was engraved on my memory. For twenty years I had carried the slightly enlarged photographs in my pocketbook and hardly a day had passed without my taking them out to con them afresh. I had them in my pocket now to justify rather than aid my memory. I held the open book before the glass and compared the photographs with the clearly printed impressions. There were seven fingerprints on the mirror, four on the right hand and three on the left, and all were identical with the corresponding prints on the photographs. No doubt was possible. But if it had been... I darted across to the chair. The floor was still littered with the cuttings from that villain's head. In my idiotic preoccupation with the other man I had let that wretched depart without a glance at his hair. I grabbed up a tuft from the floor and gazed at it. Even to the unaided eye it had an unusual quality when looked at closely. A soft shimmering appearance like that of some delicate textile. But I gave it only a single glance. Then rushing through to the parlor I spread a few hairs on a glass slip and placed it on the stage of the microscope. A single glance clenched the matter. As I put my eye to the instrument there straying across the circular field with a broad gray stripes each with its dark line of medulla obscured at intervals by rings of tiny bubbles. The demonstration was conclusive. This was the very man. Humanly speaking, no error or fallacy was possible. I stood up and laughed grimly. So much for instinct. For what fools call intuition and wise men recognize as mere slip-shod reasoning? I could understand my precious intuition now. Could analyze it into its trumfery constituents. It was the old story. Unconsciously I had built up the image of a particular kind of man and when such a man appeared I had recognized him at a glance. The villainous tartar face. I had looked for it. The fierce, furtive, hunted manor. The restless suspicion. The mob of grayish-brown hair. I had expected them all. And there they were. My man would have these peculiarities and here was a man who had them. He, therefore, was the man I sought. Oh, good old, undistributed middle term. How many intuitions have been born of you? My triumph was short-lived. A moment's reflection sobered me. True, I had found my murderer, but I had lost him again. That bird of ill omen was still a bird in the bush. In the tangled bush of criminal London. He had said that he would come back to me again and I hoped he would. But who could say? Other eyes than mine were probably looking for him. I suppose I am by nature an optimist. Otherwise I should not have continued the pursuit all these years. Hence, having mastered the passing disappointment, I settled myself patiently to wait in the hope of my victim's ultimate reappearance. Not entirely passively, however, for, after the shop was shut, I went to broad nightly to frequent the foreign restaurants in other less reputable places of the East End in the hopes of meeting him and jogging his memory. The active employment kept my mind occupied and made the time of waiting seem less long, but it had no further result. I never met the man, and, as the weeks passed without bringing him to my net, I had the uncomfortable feeling that his hair must have grown and been trimmed by someone else, unless, indeed, he had fallen into the clutches of the law. Meanwhile, I quietly made my preparations, which involved one or two visits to a shipchandler's and laid down a scheme of action. It would be a delicate business. The villain was some 15 years younger than I, a sturdy ruffian and desperate, as I had seen. My own strength and activity had been failing for some time now. Obviously I could not meet him on equal terms. Moreover, I must not allow him to injure me. That was a point of honor. This was to be no trial by wager of battle. It was to be an execution. Any retaliation by him would destroy the formal, punitive character which was the essence of the transaction. The weeks sped by. They lengthened into months, and still my visitor made no appearance. My anxiety grew. There were times when I looked at my white hair and doubted, when I almost disbared. But those times passed and my spirits revived. On the whole I was hopeful and waited patiently, and in the end my hopes were justified and my patience rewarded. It was a fair evening early in June, Wednesday evening, I recollect. When at last he came. Fortunately the shop was empty and again, oddly enough, it was some Jewish holiday. I welcomed him effusively. No fierce glare came from my eyes now. I was delighted to see him, and he was flattered at the profound impression his former visit had made on me. I began very deliberately, for I could hardly hold the scissors and was afraid that he would notice the tremor, which in fact he did. Why does your hand shake so much, Mr. Vosper? He asked, in his excellent English. You have not been curling your little finger, Hein? I reassured him on this point, but used a little extra caution until the tremor should subside, which it did as soon as I got over my first excitement. Meanwhile I let him talk. He was a boastful, egotistical oaf, as might have been expected, and I flattered and admired him until he fairly purred with self-satisfaction. It was very necessary to get him into a good humour. My terror from moment to moment was that some other customer should come in, though a holiday evening was usually a blank in a business sense until the Christian shops shut. Still, it was a serious danger which impelled me to open my attack with as little delay as possible. I had several alternative plans and I commenced with the one that I thought most promising. Taking advantage of a little pause in the conversation, I said in a confidential tone. I wonder if you can give me a little advice. I want to find somebody who will buy some valuable property without asking too many questions and who won't talk about the deal afterwards. A safe person, you know? Can you recommend me such a person? He turned in the chair and looked at me. All his self-complacent smiles were gone in an instant. The face that looked into mine was the face of as sinister a villain as I have ever clapped eyes on. The person you mean, he said fiercely, is a fence, a receiver. Why do you ask me if I know a fence? Who are you? Are you a spy for the police, Hein? What should I know about receivers? Answer me that. He glared at me with such furious suspicion that I instinctively opened my scissors and looked at the neighborhood of his caratid, but I took his question quite pleasantly. That's what they all say, I remarked with a foolish smile. Who do, he demanded. Everybody that I ask, they all say, what should I know about fences? It's very inconvenient for me. Why is it inconvenient to you? He asked less savagely and with evidently awakening curiosity. I gave an embarrassed cough. Well, you see, it's this way. Supposing I have some property, valuable property, but of a kind that is of no use to me. Naturally I want to sell it, but I don't want it talked about. I'm a poor man. If I am known to be selling things of value, people may make uncharitable remarks and busybodies may ask inconvenient questions. You see my position? Pirgav looked at me fixedly, eagerly. A new light was in his eye now. What have you got? He demanded. I coughed again. Aha! I said with a smile. It is you who are asking questions now. But you ask me to advise you. How can I, if I don't know what you've got to sell? Perhaps I might buy the stuff myself, fine? I think not, said I, unless you can write a check for four figures. But perhaps you can. Yes, perhaps I can, or perhaps I can get the money. Tell me what the stuff is. I clipped away at the top of my speed and I could cut hair very quickly if I tried. No fear of his slipping away now. I had him fast. It's a complicated affair, I said hesitatingly, and I don't want to say much about it if you're not in the line. I thought you might be able to put me on to a safe man in the regular trade. Pirgav moved impatiently, then glanced at the parlor door. Anyone in that room? He asked. No, I answered. I live here all alone. No servant? No one to look after you? He asked the questions with ill-concealed eagerness. No, I look after myself. It's cheaper and I want so little. The last statement I made in accordance with the curious fact that I had observed, which is that the really infallible method of impressing a stranger with your wealth is to dilate on your poverty. The statement had its usual effect. Pirgav fidgeted slightly, glanced at the shop door and said, finish my hair quickly and let us go in there and talk about this. I chuckled inwardly at his eagerness. Even his personal appearance had become a secondary consideration. I bustled through the rest of the operation, whisked off the cloth and opened the parlor door. He rose, glanced at his reflection in the glass, looked quickly at the shop door and followed me into the little room, shutting and bolting the door after him. End of chapter seven, part one. Chapter seven, part two of The Uttermost Farthing. This lip-revox recording is in the public domain, recording by Marianne. The Uttermost Farthing by R. Austin Freeman. Chapter seven, The Uttermost Farthing, part two. I watched him closely. I am no believer in the rubbish called telepathy, but by observing a person's face in actions it is not difficult to trace the direction of his thoughts. Pirgav gazed round the room with the frank curiosity of the barbarian and the look of pleased surprise that he bestowed on the safe and the way in which his glance traveled from that object to my person were easy enough to interpret. Here was an iron safe, presumably containing valuables, and here was an elderly man with the key of that safe in his pocket. The corollary was obvious. Is that another room? He asked, pointing to the cellar door. I threw it open and let him look into the dark cavity. That, I said, is the cellar. It has a door opening into the backyard which has a gate that opens into Bell's alley. It might be useful, don't you think so? He did think so, very emphatically, to judge by his expression. Very useful indeed when you have knocked down an old man and rifled his safe to have a quiet exit at the back. Now tell me about this stuff, said he. Have you got it here? The fact is, I said confidentially, I haven't got it at all, yet. His face fell perceptibly at this. But, I added, I can get it when I like, when I have arranged about disposing of it. But you've got a safe to keep it in, he protested. Yes, but I don't want to have it here besides that safe won't hold it all if I take over the whole lot. Pirgoff's eyes fairly bulged with greed and excitement. What sort of stuff is it, silver? There is some silver, I said superciliously, a good deal, in fact. But that's hardly worthwhile. You see, the stuff is a collection. It belongs at present to one of those fools who collect jewelry and church plate, monstrances, jeweled chalices, and things of that kind. Pirgoff lipped his lips. Ah-ha, he said. I am that sort of fool myself. He laughed uneasily, being evidently sorry he had spoken and continued. And you can get all this when you wanted, Tyne. But where is it now? I smiled slyly. It is in a sort of private museum. But where that museum is, I am not going to say. Or perhaps I may find it empty when I call. Pirgoff looked at me earnestly. He had evidently written me down for an abject fool, and no wonder, and was considering how to manage me. But this place, this museum, it must be a strong place. How are you going to get in? Will you ring the bell? I shall let myself in with a latchkey, I said, jauntly. Have you got the latchkey? Yes, and I have tried it. I have it from a friend who lives there. Pirgoff laughed outright. And she gave you the latchkey, Hyne, ha-ha. But you are a wicked old man, and it is strange, too. He glanced for me to his reflection in the little mirror over the safe, and his expression said, as plainly as words, now, if she had given it to me, one could understand it. But he continued, when you are inside, the stuff will be locked up. You are skillful, perhaps? You can open a safe, for instance? You have tried? No, I have never actually tried, but it's easy enough. I've often opened packing cases, and I don't think there is an iron safe. They are wooden cabinets. It will be quite easy. Bah, packing cases, exclaimed Pirgoff. He grasped my coat sleeve excitedly. I tell you, my friend, it's not easy. It is very difficult, I tell you this. I, who know. I am not in the line myself, but I have a friend who does these things, and he has shown me. I have some skill, though I practice only for sport, you understand. It is very difficult. You shall let yourself in, you shall find the stuff locked up, you shall try to open the cabinet, and you shall only make a great noise. Then you shall come away empty, like a fool, and the police shall set a watch on the house. The chance is gone, and you have nothing. I scratched my head like the fool that he thought me. That would be rather awkward, I admitted. Awkward, he exclaimed. It would be wicked. The chance of a lifetime gone. Now, if you take with you a friend who has skill, hain? Ah, I said craftily, but this is my little nest egg. If I take a friend I shall have to share. But there is enough for two. If you're safe will not hold it, there's more than you can carry. Besides, your friend shall not be greedy. If he takes a third, or say a quarter, how much is the stuff worth? The collection is said to be worth 100,000 pounds. 100,000? gasped Pyrogoth. He was almost foaming at the mouth. 100,000? That would be 25 for me, for your friend, and 75 for you. It is impossible for one man. You could not carry it, my friend. Again he grasped my sleeve persuasively. I will come with you. I am very skillful. I am strong. I am brave. You shall be safe with me. I will be your comrade, and you shall give a quarter, or even less if you like. He could afford to make easy terms under the circumstances. I reflected a while, and at length said, Perhaps you are right. Some of these things are large and gold is heavy. We should leave the silver. It would take two to carry it all. Yes, you shall come with me and bring the necessary tools. When shall we do it? Any night will do for me. He reflected with an air of slight embarrassment, and then asked, Do you open your shop on Sunday? The question took a load off my mind. I had been speculating on what plan of action he would adopt. Now I knew, and his plan would suit me to a nicety. No, I said, I never open on Sunday. Then, said he, We will do the job on Saturday night or Sunday morning. That will give us a quiet day to break up the stuff. Yes, that would be a good arrangement. Will you come here on Saturday night and start with me? No, no, he replied, That would never do. We must not be seen together. Give me a rendezvous. We will meet near the place. Quite so. It would never do for us to be seen together in Whitechapel, where we were both known. The fact might be mentioned at the inquest. It would be most inconvenient for Pyrogoth. And, look you, he continued, Wear a top hat and good clothes. If you have an evening suit, put it on, and bring a new Gladstone bag with some clothes in it. Where will you meet me? I mentioned Upper Bedford Place and suggested Half-Pass 12, to which he agreed, and, after sending me out to see that the coast was clear, he took his leave, twisting his waxed mustache as he went out. I was, on the whole, very pleased with the arrangement. Particularly pleased was I with Pyrogoth's transparent plan for disposing of me. Four. Now that it really came to action, I found myself shying somewhat at the office of executioner, though I meant to do my duty all the same. But the fact that this man was already arranging Cooley to murder me made my task less unpalatable. The British sporting instinct is incurable. Pyrogoth's scheme was perfectly simple. We should go together to the house. We should bring away the spoil, I carrying half, convey it to my premises in Sal Street early on Sunday morning. Then we should break up the stuff, and when our labours were concluded, and I was of no further use, he would knock me on the head. Quiet back gate would enable him to carry away the booty in installments to his lodgings. Then he would lock the gate and vanish. In a few days the police would break into my house and find my body, and Mr. Pyrogoth, in his hotel at, say, Amsterdam, would read an account of the inquest. It was delightfully simple and effective, but it failed to take into account the player on the opposite side of the board. The interval between Wednesday and Saturday was a time of anxious thought and considerable excitement. I went out every night and had the pleasure of discovering that I was honoured by the attendance, at a little distance, of Mr. Pyrogoth. One evening only I eluded him, and watched him drive off furiously in a handsome in pursuit of another handsome, which was supposed to contain me. On that night I visited the museum. Not that I had anything special to do. My very complete and even elaborate arrangements had been made some time before, and now I had only to look them over and see that they were in going order, to test, for instance, the brass handle that was connected with the electric main, to see that the well-oiled blocks of a couple of purchase tackles ran smoothly and silently. Everything was in working trim, even to the concusser stowed out of sight but within easy reach in its narrow basket. Saturday night arrived in due course. I shut up the shop at nine, put on evening clothes, took the newly purchased Gladstone, and hailed a handsome. I drove, in the first place, to the Ceterian restaurant and dined delicately but substantially, carefully avoiding indigestible dishes. From the restaurant I drove to the museum, where I loitered, making a final inspection of my arrangements, until twenty-five minutes past twelve. Then I came forth and walked quietly to Upper Bedford Place. As I turned the corner and looked down the wide thoroughfare, the long stretch of pavement contained but a single figure, a dim, dark bolt on the gray of the midsummer night. It moved towards me, and, resolving itself into a definite shape, showed me pierigoff and evening dress, enveloped in a voluminous overcoat and carrying a small handbag. You are punctual, Vosper, he said graciously. Shall we make our visit now? Is the house quiet yet? These are not, you see. He nodded at the boarding houses that we were passing, several of which still showed lights in the windows. Our house has settled down, I answered. The collector is an early bird. I've just been past it to see that all the lights were out. We walked quickly across the square towards the neighborhood of my house. Pierigoff was very affable. He conversed cheerfully as we went and gave a pleasant good-night to a policeman, who touched his helmet civilly in response. When I halted at the door of the museum, he looked about him with a slight frown. I seem to know this place, he murmured. Yes, I have been here before. Many years ago. Yes. Yes, I remember. He laughed softly as if recalling an amusing incident. I set my teeth, inserted the key, and pushed the door open. Enter, I said. He stepped into the hall. I followed and softly closed the door, slipping up the catch as the lock clicked. It was a small precaution, but enough to hinder a hasty retreat. I piloted him through the museum and switched on a single electric lamp which filled the great room with a ghostly twilight. Pierigoff looked about him inquisitively, and his eye fell on the long wall-case with dimly-seen, pallid shapes of the company within it. His face blanched suddenly, and he stared with wide open eyes. God! he exclaimed. What are those things? Those skeletons, said I, they are part of the collection. The fellow who owns this place hordes all sorts of trash. Come round and have a look at them. But skeletons, he whispered. Skeletons of men. I do not like them. Nevertheless he followed me round the room, peering in nervously at the case of skulls as we passed. I walked him slowly past the whole length of the wall-case, and he stared in at the twenty-four motionless, white figures, shuttering audibly. I must admit that their appearance was very striking in that feeble light. Their poses were so easy and natural, and their faces, modeled by broad shadows, so singularly expressive. I was very pleased with the effect. But they are horrible, gassed paragraph. They seem to be alive. They seem to beckon to one, to say, come in here. Come in and stay with us. They are dreadful. Let us go away from them. He stole on tiptoe to the other side of the room and stood positively shaking, shaking at the sight of a mere collection of dry bones. It was amazing. I have often been puzzled by the odd, superstitious fear with which ignorant people view these interesting and beautiful structures. But surely this was an extreme case. Here was a callous wretch who would murder without a scruple, a young and lovely woman, and laugh at the recollection of the atrocity. And he was actually terrified at the sight of a few irregularly shaped fragments, a phosphate of lime and gelatin. I repeated. It was amazing. Pirgauff recovered only to develop the ferocity of a frightened ruffian. Where is the stuff, fool, he demanded? Show it to me quickly, or I will cut your throat. Quick. Let us get it and go. I watched him warily. These neurotic, slob criminals, when they get into a state of panic, are like frightened cats, very dangerous to be near. And the more frightened, the more dangerous. I must keep an eye on Pirgauff. I can open one of the cabinets, I said. Then open it, pig. Open it quickly. I want to get away from this place. He grinned at me like an angry monkey, and I led him to the secret cupboard. As I very deliberately turned the hidden catches and prepared to take out the panel, I considered whether it was not time to set the apparatus going. For I had prepared a little surprise for Pirgauff, and I was now rather doubtful how he would take it. Besides, I was not enjoying the proceedings as much as I had expected to. Pirgauff's lack of nerve was disconcerting. However, I took out the panel and stood by to watch the result. Pirgauff peered into the cupboard and uttered a growl of disappointment. There's nothing here but books in these boxes. Lift the boxes down, pig, and let us see what is in them. I lifted the boxes from the shelf. They are very light, I said. And here are two pistols on top of them. These pistols were the surprise that I had prepared in a spirit of mischief. I had taken them from the pockets of the last two specimens and kept them for the sake of the devices that the two imbeciles had scratched on the butts. Pistols, exclaimed Pirgauff, let me look at them. He snatched the weapons from the top of the box and took them over to the lamp. Immediately I heard a gasp of astonishment. God, but this is a strange thing. Here is Louis Plakavitch's pistol, and this other belonged to Boris Lobodinsky. They have been here, too. He stared at me open-mouthed, holding the pistols, which I had carefully unloaded, one in each trembling hand. What little nerve he had was going fast. I laid the boxes on a small table and switched on the lamp that hung close over it. High up above the table was one of the cross-beams of the roof. From the beam there hung down two purchase tackles. The tail-rope of each tackle ended in a noose that was hitched on a hook on the wall, and the falls of the two tackles were hitched lightly over two other hooks. But none of these appliances was visible, the shaded lamp through its bright light on the table only. Pyrogoth came across the room and laid down the pistols. Open those boxes, he said gruffly, and let us see what is in them. I took off the lid of one, and Pyrogoth started back with a gasp, but came back, snuffing at the box like a frightened animal. What the devil are these things, he demanded in a horse whisper. They look like dolls' heads, I answered. They look like dead men's heads, he whispered shudderingly, only they are too small. They are dreadful. This collector-man is a devil, I should like to kill him. He glared with horrid fascination at the little dry preparations. There were eight in this box, each in its own little black velvet compartment, with its number and date on the label. I opened the second box, also containing eight, and he stared into that with the same shuddering fascination. What do you suppose these dates mean, he whispered. I suppose, I replied, those are the dates when he acquired them. Here's another box. This, the last one, was intended to hold nine heads, but it contained only eight, at present. There was an empty compartment of red velvet in the middle, on either side of which were the heads of the last two specimens, twenty-three and twenty-four. I took off the lid, and stood back to see what would happen. Pyrogoth stared into the box without speaking for two or three seconds. Suddenly he uttered a shriek. It is Boris. Boris and Louis Plakavich. His figures stiffened. He stood rigid with his hands on his thighs, leaning over the box. His hair bristling. His white face running with sweat. His jaw dropped. The very personification of horror. And of a sudden he began to tremble violently. I looked at him with disgust and an instantaneous revulsion of feeling. What, should I call in the aid of all those elaborate appliances to dispatch a poor trembling devil like this? I would have none of them. The concusser was good enough for him. Nay, it was too good. I reached out behind me and lifted one of the nooses from its hook. Its own weight had nearly closed the loop, for the steel eyelet spliced into the end ran very easily and smoothly on the well- greased rope. I opened the loop wide, and leaning toward Pyrogoth from behind quietly dropped it over his shoulders, pulling it tight as it fell to the level of his elbows. He sprang up, but at that instant I kicked away one of his feet and pushed him to the unsupported side when he fell sprawling face downwards. I gave another tug at the rope and, as he struggled to get to his feet, I snatched the fall of the tackle from its hook and ran away with it, hauling as I went. Looking back I saw Pyrogoth slowly rise to the pull of the tackle until he was upright with his feet just touching the floor. Then I belayed the fall securely to one of a pair of cleats and approached him. Hitherto sheer amazement had kept him silent, but as I drew near him he gave a yell of terror. This would not do. Taking the gag from the place where I had hidden it in readiness, I came behind him and stuffed it over his mouth where I secured it, cautiously evading his attempts to clutch at me. It was a poor gag, having no tongue-piece, but it answered its purpose, for it reduced his shouts to mere muffled bellowings inaudible outside. Now that the poor wretch was pinioned and gagged and helpless, my feelings urged me to get the business over quickly, but certain formalities had to be observed. It was an execution. I stepped in front of the prisoner and addressed him. Listen to me, Pyrogoth. At the sound of his name he stopped bellowing and stared at me, and I continued. Twenty years ago a burglar came to this house. He was in the dining-room at two o'clock in the morning, preparing to steal the plate. A lady came into the room and disturbed him. He tried to prevent her from ringing the bell, but she rang it, and he shot her dead. I need not tell you, Pyrogoth, who that burglar was, but I will tell you who I am. I am the husband of that lady. I have been looking for you for twenty years, and now I have caught you, and you have got to pay the penalty of that murder. As I ceased speaking he broke out into fresh bellowings. He wagged his head from side to side, and the tears coursed down his ghastly face. It was horrible. Trembling myself from head to foot I took the second news from its hook, passed it over his head and quickly adjusted it. Then I snatched the second fall and walked away with it, gathering in the slack. As the rope tightened in my hand the bellowing suddenly ceased. I never looked back. I continued to haul until I felt the tackle-blocks come together. I belayed the rope to the second cleat and set a half hitch on the turns. Then I walked out of the museum and shut the door. It had been very different from what I had anticipated. As I sat by the laboratory table with my head buried in my hands, I shook as if I had an augu. My skin was bathed in a cold sweat, and I felt that it would have been a relief to weep. I was astonished at myself. Twenty-four of these vermin I had exterminated with a light heart because the blow was dealt in the heat of conflict. And now, because this wretch had been helpless and unresisting, I was nearly broken with the effort of dispatching him. I sat in the dark laboratory slowly recovering and thinking of the long years that had slipped away since the hand of this miscreant had robbed me of my darling. Gradually I grew more calm, but fully an hour passed before I could summon resolution to go back into the museum and satisfy myself that the long outstanding debt had indeed been paid at last to the uttermost farthing. On Monday morning I withdrew from my bank a hundred pounds in notes which I handed to my landlord's widow, Mr. Nathan had died some years previously, with a note surrendering the shop and the house in Sal Street. I emptied the safe and brought away such things as I cared to keep, leaving the rest for Mrs. Nathan. Then I shaved off my ragged beard and white mustache, set my Bloomsbury house in order, pensioned off the sergeant major, who was now growing an old man, and engaged a set of respectable servants. When the last specimen was finished and put in its place in the museum, my work was done. I had now only to wait quietly for the end. And for that I am now waiting. I hope not impatiently. Something tells me that I have not long to wait. Certain new and strange sensations, which I have discussed with my friend Dr. Wharton, seem to herald a change. Wharton makes light of them, but I think and hope he is mistaken. And in that hope I rest content, believing that soon I shall hear the curfew chimes steal out of the evening mist, to tell me that the day is over, and that my little spark may be put out. The End of Chapter 7 An End of the Uttermost Farthing Read by Mary Ann Spiegel in Chicago, Illinois, December 31, 2009.