"True, but in this case a wart, of peculiar shape, gave the man away. The mark of his bloody hand, leaving the wart's impress, was not only on the handkerchief, but left against the white shirt-front of the murdered man as well. The man who committed the murder read of the clew in a Chicago paper, and, to obliterate the tell-tale evidence, he cut the wart from his hand and dropped it under the seat while journeying through Iowa in disguise, on an emigrant train."
The face of Elliston had become white as death, and he trembled from head to foot. If Bernard had doubted before, he doubted now no longer.
"A nice story," finally sneered Bernard's visitor. "When did you learn so much?"
"Weeks ago—"
"And you have permitted this villain to run at large so long!"
"Well, I propose to see that he does not flaunt his crimes in the face of the world longer."
Then, with a quick movement, the youth drew a vial from his pocket and held it up to view, exhibiting to the dilating eyes of the New Yorker a large wart with a double top.
"Just remove the glove from your right hand, Mr. Elliston. I think we will find a scar there that this wart will fit—"
"Furies! this is too much," cried Elliston, coming to his feet, white with rage and fear.
"Stop. Keep your temper," warned Bernard. "I wish to bring a witness; one that has been your companion in crime."