The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK ®. R. Austin Freeman

him, although she had a sweetheart of her own, a young man named Paul Petrofsky, who also lodged in the Goldsteins’ house. At last Moses broke off with Miriam, and engaged himself to Minna. Then Miriam was furious, and complained to Minna about what she called her perfidious conduct; but Minna only laughed, and told her she could have Petrofsky instead.”

      “And what did Minna say to that?” asked the coroner.

      “She was still more angry, because Moses Cohen is a smart, good-looking young man, while Petrofsky is not much to look at. Besides, Miriam did not like Petrofsky; he had been rude to her, and she had made her father send him away from the house. So they were not friends, and it was just after that that the trouble came.”

      “The trouble?”

      “I mean about Moses Cohen. Miriam is a very passionate girl, and she was furiously jealous of Minna, so when Petrofsky annoyed her by taunting her about Moses Cohen and Minna, she lost her temper, and said dreadful things about both of them.”

      “As, for instance—?”

      “She said that she would kill them both, and that she would like to cut Minna’s throat.”

      “When was this?”

      “It was the day before the murder.”

      “Who heard her say these things besides you?”

      “Another lodger named Edith Bryant and Petrofsky. We were all standing in the hall at the time.”

      “But I thought you said Petrofsky had been turned away from the house.”

      “So he had, a week before; but he had left a box in his room, and on this day he had come to fetch it. That was what started the trouble. Miriam had taken his room for her bedroom, and turned her old one into a workroom. She said he should not go to her room to fetch his box.”

      “And did he?”

      “I think so. Miriam and Edith and I went out, leaving him in the hall. When we came back the box was gone, and, as Mrs. Goldstein was in the kitchen and there was nobody else in the house, he must have taken it.”

      “You spoke of Miriam’s workroom. What work did she do?”

      “She cut stencils for a firm of decorators.”

      Here the coroner took a peculiarly shaped knife from the table before him, and handed it to the witness.

      “Have you ever seen that knife before?” he asked.

      “Yes. It belongs to Miriam Goldstein. It is a stencil-knife that she used in her work.”

      This concluded the evidence of Kate Silver, and when the name of the next witness, Paul Petrofsky, was called, our Mansell Street friend came forward to be sworn. His evidence was quite brief, and merely corroborative of that of Kate Silver, as was that of the next witness, Edith Bryant. When these had been disposed of, the coroner announced:

      “Before taking the medical evidence, gentlemen, I propose to hear that of the police-officers, and first we will call Detective-sergeant Alfred Bates.”

      The sergeant stepped forward briskly, and proceeded to give his evidence with official readiness and precision.

      “I was called by Constable Simmonds at eleven-forty-nine, and reached the house at two minutes to twelve in company with Inspector Harris and Divisional Surgeon Davidson. When I arrived Dr. Hart, Dr. Thorndyke, and Dr. Jervis were already in the room. I found the deceased woman, Minna Adler, lying in bed with her throat cut. She was dead and cold. There were no signs of a struggle, and the bed did not appear to have been disturbed. There was a table by the bedside on which was a book and an empty candlestick. The candle had apparently burnt out, for there was only a piece of charred wick at the bottom of the socket. A box had been placed on the floor at the head of the bed and a hassock stood on it. Apparently the murderer had stood on the hassock and leaned over the head of the bed to commit the murder. This was rendered necessary by the position of the table, which could not have been moved without making some noise and perhaps disturbing the deceased. I infer from the presence of the box and hassock that the murderer is a short person.”

      “Was there anything else that seemed to fix the identity of the murderer?”

      “Yes. A tress of a woman’s red hair was grasped in the left hand of the deceased.”

      As the detective uttered this statement, a simultaneous shriek of horror burst from the accused woman and her mother. Mrs. Goldstein sank half-fainting on to a bench, while Miriam, pale as death, stood as one petrified, fixing the detective with a stare of terror, as he drew from his pocket two small paper packets, which he opened and handed to the coroner.

      “The hair in the packet marked A,” said he, “is that which was found in the hand of the deceased; that in the packet marked B is the hair of Miriam Goldstein.”

      Here the accused woman’s solicitor rose. “Where did you obtain the hair in the packet marked B?” he demanded.

      “I took it from a bag of combings that hung on the wall of Miriam Goldstein’s bedroom,” answered the detective.

      “I object to this,” said the solicitor. “There is no evidence that the hair from that bag was the hair of Miriam Goldstein at all.”

      Thorndyke chuckled softly. “The lawyer is as dense as the policeman,” he remarked to me in an undertone. “Neither of them seems to see the significance of that bag in the least.”

      “Did you know about the bag, then?” I asked in surprise.

      “No. I thought it was the hair-brush.”

      I gazed at my colleague in amazement, and was about to ask for some elucidation of this cryptic reply, when he held up his finger and turned again to listen.

      “Very well, Mr. Horwitz,” the coroner was saying, “I will make a note of your objection, but I shall allow the sergeant to continue his evidence.”

      The solicitor sat down, and the detective resumed his statement.

      “I have examined and compared the two samples of hair, and it is my opinion that they are from the head of the same person. The only other observation that I made in the room was that there was a small quantity of silver sand sprinkled on the pillow around the deceased woman’s head.”

      “Silver sand!” exclaimed the coroner. “Surely that is a very singular material to find on a woman’s pillow?”

      “I think it is easily explained,” replied the sergeant. “The wash-hand basin was full of bloodstained water, showing that the murderer had washed his—or her—hands, and probably the knife, too, after the crime. On the washstand was a ball of sand-soap, and I imagine that the murderer used this to cleanse his—or her—hands, and, while drying them, must have stood over the head of the bed and let the sand sprinkle down on to the pillow.”

      “A simple but highly ingenious explanation,” commented the coroner approvingly, and the jurymen exchanged admiring nods and nudges.

      “I searched the rooms occupied by the accused woman, Miriam Goldstein, and found there a knife of the kind used by stencil cutters, but larger than usual. There were stains of blood on it which the accused explained by saying that she cut her finger some days ago. She admitted that the knife was hers.”

      This concluded the sergeant’s evidence, and he was about to sit down when the solicitor rose.

      “I should like to ask this witness one or two questions,” said he, and the coroner having nodded assent, he proceeded: “Has the finger of the accused been examined since her arrest?”

      “I believe not,” replied the sergeant. “Not to my knowledge, at any rate.”

      The solicitor noted the reply, and then asked: “With reference to the silver sand, did you find any at the bottom of the wash-hand basin?”

      The sergeant’s face reddened. “I did not examine the wash-hand basin,”