"I was so nipped and frozen with cold, that after closing the door, it took me some time to get my matchbox from my pocket and strike a light, for the passage was in intense darkness. Then the fear came over me that I might be mistaken for a burglar. So I called out at the top of my voice without receiving a reply. Thinking it very strange I made my way upstairs to the first floor, and entered a room in which there was no light. I called out again, and still received no reply. I must make the people hear, thought I, and I left the room and ascended the second flight of stairs. To cut a long story short, I went all over the house, and came to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. But I had observed in the room on the first floor signs of some person having been there, but whether recently or not I could not judge without further examination. So I groped back to that room, and by good luck happened to put my hand on a small piece of candle on a sideboard. This I lighted, and you will understand how startled I was at what I saw.
"The furniture seemed to have been violently hurled in all directions, a table at the further end of the room was upset, and an object which I did not immediately distinguish lay beneath it. My first impulse was to fly from the house; there had evidently been a desperate fight in the room, and I might be implicated in what had taken place. Upon second thoughts I became reassured. I could account for every minute of my time during the day and night, up to the moment I had entered this strange house; and my curiosity led me to ascertain the nature of the proceeding which had brought about such confusion. That done I could proceed to the police station and report what I had seen. I will not attempt to describe my horror when I saw the body of a dead man beneath the table, and when, examining the mutilated features, I discovered that the murdered man was Louis Fordham. It makes me sick to think of it. I must have another drink."
He tossed off a full glass of brandy and water, and rose and paced the room. I sat in silent agony, waiting for what was to come.
"Let me make an end of it as quickly as possible," he said. "Louis lay there before me, stone dead. Who was the murderer? At whose cowardly hand had he met his death? The newspaper report says that his features were unrecognizable, but though his face, when I saw it, was dreadfully disfigured, I could not mistake it. Then, the fortnight that has elapsed may have made some change in him; then again, there may be some exaggeration in the report. Such sensations are always made the worst of; newspaper writers like to pile up the agony. I searched for some evidence that would help to bring the guilt home to the murderer. It is curious, John, that they generally leave something behind that proves fatal. You did. The first thing I found was the knife with which the deadly stab had been inflicted. There was blood upon it. Now, why should the discovery of that knife have directed my thoughts in your direction? A kind of lame explanation can be given, but it doesn't quite account for it. Perhaps it was what we call Providence, perhaps it was because the knife was not one which a man living in England ordinarily carries about with him. It was such a knife as gold-diggers use, and carry in a sheath. Do you see the connection? A gold-digger's knife. You have been in Australia, and most likely on the goldfields. A steamer from Australia had that very day arrived at Liverpool. That formed a sequence, which I accepted all the more readily because I had no cause to love you. I am frank, you see; I am always frank. I detest duplicity.
"Continuing my search I found a watch. It was like a watch you used to wear in happier days, but of this I could not be sure. However, as I have said, the history of a watch can be traced. It was not such a watch as Louis was in the habit of wearing. Still continuing my search, I found a matchbox, and on the lid the initials, J. F. They stand for John Fordham. They stand also for John Fletcher. Did it strike you when you assumed that name that the initials were the same? Your having been in Australia, the arrival of an Australian vessel, the gold-digger's knife, the watch, the matchbox with the initials, J. F., formed a complete chain. I said to myself, 'My brother-in-law, John, is the murderer.'"
He had spoken all through with zest, and as he went on his enjoyment of the story he was relating seemed to increase. Having now reached a dramatic point he paused again to give it greater weight.
"What now remained to me to do?" he continued. "To denounce you—to put the rope round your own neck? Undoubtedly that would have been the right course, and had I acted upon the impulse of the moment the whole country would be howling at you for a cold-blooded monster, who had since boyhood nursed his vindictive hatred of his brother, and only waited a favorable opportunity to barbarously murder him. For it was a murder of the most savage kind, John; poor Louis' body was frightfully battered and bruised. But second thoughts deterred me. You were related to me by marriage; disgrace to you meant, in some small measure, disgrace to me; I might, after all, be mistaken in the conclusions I had drawn; it would only be fair, before proceeding to extremities, to give you a chance of saying a word in your own defense; and, though it may be hard to believe, I have really a sneaking regard for you. Upon the top of this came the reflection that you might invent some sort of story, upon the strength of which you would give yourself up and take the chances of the law. A voluntary surrender would go far in your favor, and you might issue from the trial a free man, or if not free, with a nominal punishment for manslaughter. It was perhaps foolish of me to allow these considerations to prevail, but it was the course I adopted. So, bearing away with me the articles which prove your guilt, I stole from the house unobserved. The next day I was in London. A week passed by, and no news relating to the murder appeared in the papers, nor was there any notice of your giving yourself up. This deepened my conviction that you were the murderer. Innocence proclaims itself, guilt hides its head. And every hour that was passed fixed the rope more firmly round your neck in case of discovery. Then I set myself to the task of finding you, and here you behold me with my round, unvarnished tale delivered. I think I am entitled to ask a question. Innocent or guilty, John?"
"Both," I answered.
"Ah. You have heard my story. Let me hear yours."
I related it to him without distortion or exaggeration. As I related the events of that fatal night I was filled with dismay at the weakness of the only defense I could make. Conscious of my innocence, I recognized that my silence and concealment had made the web in which I was entangled so strong that there was no human hope of escape. At the conclusion of my tale Maxwell shook his head and smiled.