The Last Stroke. Lawrence L. Lynch

      The doctor's answer came after a moment's grave thought.

      "I am, I think, a Christian," he said, gravely, "but I think—bah! I know that I would make my life's work to find out the truth about that murder, for that it was a murder, I solemnly believe."

CHAPTER IV. FERRARS.

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      Robert Brierly caught his breath.

      "And your reason?" he gasped, "for you have a reason other than the mere fact of the bullet-wound in the neck."

      "I have seen just such deeds in the wild west and I know how they are done. But this is also professional knowledge. Besides, man, call reason to your aid! Oh, I expect too much. The hurt is too fresh, you can only feel now, but the man shot by accident, be it by his own hand or that of another, is not shot twice."

      "Good heavens, no!"

      "But when one who creeps upon his victim unawares, shoots him from behind, and, as he falls, fearing the work is not completed, shoots again, the victim, as you must see, receives the wound further to the front as the body falls forward and partially turns in falling. Do you see? Do you comprehend?"

      "Yes." Brierly shuddered.

      "Brierly, this talk is hurting you cruelly. Let us drop details, or postpone them."

      "Not the essential ones. I must bear what I must. Go on, doctor. I quite agree with you. It looks like a murder, and we must—I must know the truth—must find the one who did the deed. Doctor, advise me."

      "About——"

      "How to begin, no time should be lost."

      "That means a good detective, as soon as possible. Do you chance to know any of these gentry?"

      "I——No, indeed! I suppose a telegram to the chief of police——"

      "Allow me," broke in Doctor Barnes. "May I make a suggestion?"

      "Anything. I seem unable to think."

      "And no wonder! I know the right man for you if he is in Chicago. You see, I was in hospital practice for several years, and have also had my share of prison experience. While thus employed I met a man named Ferrars, an Englishman, who for some years has spent the greater part of his time in this country, in Chicago, in fact. There's a mystery and a romance attached to the man, or his history. He's not connected with any of the city offices, but he is one of three retired detectives—retired, that is, from regular work—who work together at need when they feel a case to be worth their efforts. I think a case like this will be certain to attract Ferrars."

      "And he is your choice of the three?"

      The doctor smiled. "The others are married," he said, "and not so ready to go far afield as is Ferrars."

      "You think him skilful?"

      "None better."

      "Then, do you know his address?"

      Brierly got up and began to walk about, his eyes beginning to glow with the excitement so long suppressed. "Because we can't get him here too soon."

      "I agree with you. And now one thing more. To give him every advantage he should not be known, and the inquest should not begin until he is here."

      "Can that be managed?"

      "I think so."

      Brierly was now nervously eager. He seemed to have shaken off the stupor which at first had seemed to seize upon and hold him, and his questions and suggestions came thick and fast. It ended, of course, in his putting himself into the doctor's hands, and accepting his plans and suggestions entirely. And very soon, Dr. Barnes, having given his factotum distinct instructions as regarded visitors, and inquiries, had set off, his medicine case carried ostentatiously in his hand, not for the telegraph office, but for the cottage, close by, where Hilda Grant found a home.

      It was a small, neatly-kept cottage, and Mrs. Marcy, a gentle, kindly widow, and the young teacher were its only occupants.

      The widow met him at the door, her face anxious, her voice the merest whisper.

      "Doctor, tell me; do you think she will really be ill?"

      "Why no, Mrs. Marcy; at least not for long. It has been a shock, of course; a great shock. But she——"

      "Ah, doctor, she is heart-broken. I—I think I surely may tell you. It will help you to understand. They were engaged, and for a little while, such a pitiful little while it seems now, they have been so happy."

      The doctor was silent a moment, his eyes turned away.

      "And now," went on the good woman, "she will be lonelier than ever. You know she was very lonely here at first. She has no relatives nearer than a cousin anywhere in the world, to her knowledge. And he has never been to see her. He lives in Chicago, too, not so far away."

      "Yes, surely he ought to visit her now, really. Just ask her if I may come up, Mrs. Marcy. I—I'm glad you told me of this. Thank you. It will help me."

      Ten minutes later Doctor Barnes was hastening toward the telegraph office, where he sent away this singular and wordy message:

      "Frank Ferrars, No. … Street, Chicago—

      "Your cousin, Miss Hilda Grant, is ill, and in trouble. It is a case in which you are needed as much as I. Come, if possible, by first evening train.

      "Walter Barnes."

      "That will fetch him," he mused, as he hastened homeward. "Ferrars never breaks a promise, though I little expected to have to remind him of it within the year."

      "Well," began Brierly, when he entered his own door. "Have you seen her? Was she willing?"

      "Willing and anxious. She is a brave and sensible little woman. She will do her part, and she has never for one moment believed in the theory of an accident."

      "And she will receive me?"

      "This evening. She insists that we hold our council there, in her presence. At first I objected, on account of her weakness, but she is right in her belief that we should be most secure there, and Ferrars should not be seen abroad to-night. We will have to take Mrs. Marcy into our confidence, in part at least, but she can be trusted. We will all be observed, more or less, for a few days. But, of course, I shall put Ferrars up for the night. That will be the thing to do after he has spent a short evening with his cousin."

      Brierly once more began his restless pacing to and fro, turning presently to compare his watch with the doctor's Dutch clock.

      "It will be the longest three hours I ever passed," he said, and a great sigh broke from his lips.

      But, before the first hour had passed, a boy from the telegraph office handed in a blue envelope, and the doctor hastily broke the seal and read—

      "Be with you at 6.20.

      "Ferrars."

      When the first suburban train for the evening halted, puffing, at the village station, Doctor Barnes waiting upon the platform, saw a man of medium height and square English build step down from the smoking car and look indifferently about him.

      There was the usual throng of gaping and curious villagers, and some of them heard the stranger say, as he advanced toward the doctor, who waited with his small medicine case in his hand—

      "Pardon me; is this doctor—doctor Barnes?" And when the doctor nodded he asked quickly, "How is she?"

      "Still unnerved and weak. We have had a terrible shock, for all of us."

      When the two men had left the crowd of curious loungers behind them the doctor said—

      "It is awfully