A respectable citizen of a town some thirty or forty miles beyond, on the railroad, hearing of the murder, had taken the trouble to come down to Blankville and testify to some things which had fallen under his observation on the night of the murder. He stated that he was a passenger on the Saturday afternoon train from New York; that the seat in front of his own, in the car, was occupied by a young gentleman, who, by the description since given, he knew must be Henry Moreland; that, as there were but few people in that car, he had given the more attention to those near him; that he was particularly attracted by the prepossessing appearance of the young gentleman, with whom he exchanged a few remarks with regard to the storm, and who informed him that he was going no further than Blankville.
“After we had been riding a while,” said the witness—I do not give James’ words in telling it, but his own, as I afterward read them in the sworn testimony—“I noticed a person who sat on the opposite side of the car, facing us. His forehead was bent on his hand, and he was looking out from under his fingers, at the young man in front of me. It was his sinister expression which compelled me to notice him. His small, glittering, black eyes were fixed upon my neighbor with a look which made me shudder. I smiled at myself for my own sensation—said to myself it was none of my business—that I was nervous—yet, in spite of my attempts to be unconcerned, I was continually compelled to look across at the individual of whose serpent-gaze the young gentleman himself appeared totally unconscious. If he had once met those eyes, I am certain he would have been on his guard—for I assert, without other proof than what afterward transpired, that there was murder in them, and that that person was Henry Moreland’s murderer. I can not prove it—but my conviction is unalterable. I only wish, now, that I had yielded to my impulse to shake my unknown neighbor, and say to him—‘See! there is an enemy! beware of him!’ There was nothing but the man’s look to justify such a proceeding, and of course I curbed my feelings.
“The man was a common-looking person, dressed in dark clothes; he wore a low-crowned felt hat, slouched down on his forehead; I do not remember about his hair, but his eyes were black, his complexion sallow. I noticed a scar across the back of the hand which he held over his eyes, as if it had sometime been cut across with a knife; also that he had a large ring, with a red stone in it, on his little finger.
“When the cars stopped at Blankville, this person arose and followed Henry Moreland from the car. I saw him step off the platform behind him, which was the last I saw of either of them.”
It may be imagined with what a thrill of fearful interest we listened to this account, and the thousand conjectures to which it gave rise.
“It can not be difficult,” I exclaimed, “to find other witnesses to testify of this man.”
We were assured by James that every effort had been made to get some trace of him. No person answering to the description was a resident of the village, and no one could be heard of as having been seen in the vicinity. Not a solitary lounger about the depot, or the hotel close at hand, could recall that he had seen such a stranger leave the cars; no such person had stopped at the hotel; even the conductor of the train could not be certain of such a passenger, though he had a dim recollection of a rough fellow in the car with Mr. Moreland—he had not observed where he left the train—thought his ticket was for Albany.
“But we do not despair of some evidence, yet,” said Mr. Argyll.
“The New York police, not being able to do anything further here, have gone home,” continued James. “If such a villain lurks in New York, he will be found. That scar on the hand is a good point for identifying him—don’t you think so, sir?” to Mr. Burton.
“Well—yes! unless it was put on for the purpose. It may have been done in red ocher, and washed off afterward. If the fellow was a practiced hand, as the skill and precision of the blow would imply, he will be up to all such tricks. If he had a real scar, he would have worn gloves on such an errand.”
“You think so?” and James drew a long breath, probably of discouragement at this new statement of the case.
“I would like to go down to the depot, and along the docks for an hour,” continued Mr. Burton, “if there’s nothing else to be done immediately.”
James politely insisted upon accompanying us.
“What the deuce did you bring another of those detectives up here for?” he asked me, sotto voce, at the first opportunity. “We’ve had a surfeit of them—they’re regular bores! and this Burroughs or Burton, or whatever his name is, is the most disagreeable of them all. A conceited fellow—one of the kind I dislike, naturally.”
“You mistake his character. He is intelligent and a gentleman.”
“I wish you joy of his society,” was the sneering reply.
Nevertheless, James favored us with his company during our morning’s tour. One sole fact the detective ascertained in the course of his two hours’ work. A fisherman had lost a small-boat during the storm of Saturday night. He had left it, fastened to its accustomed moorings, and, in the morning, found that the chain, which was old and rusty, had parted one of its links, probably by the extreme violence with which the wind had dashed the boat about. Mr. Burton had
