“Na!” and the blue eyes looked hunted and afraid. “Ay bane found it anear the body,——”
“Yes, you did! Quit lying now, and own up! You’re caught with the goods on. The jig is up, so you may as well confess decently. You hid this in your mattress!”
“Yes, Ay hid it, but it is not mine. Ay found it anear the——”
“Don’t repeat that trumped-up yarn! You killed that man! What did you do with the knife?”
“Ay got na knife—”
“Yes, you have! Lots of knives. Come, Mrs. Sandstrom, what have you to say?”
But the Swede woman could only incoherently repeat that her husband had brought home the handkerchief, and declared he had found it, as he had found the bottle, near the dead body of a strange man. They had hidden it quickly, lest some of the police come to their house; and the bottle they had washed to get rid of the foul odor.
“She’s in earnest,” said the coroner, looking sharply at her, “he told her this tale and she believes it, even yet. Or if she doesn’t, she’ll stick to it that she does. You see, it all hangs together. Sandstrom killed Mr. Trowbridge, and probably the dying man did call him Cain, and cry out ‘Wilful murder!’ for this fellow wouldn’t be likely to make up such a speech. But it referred to himself and he tried to place it on another. The bottle story is a made-up yarn, by which he clumsily tried to imply a poisoning. The lead pencil found there, is Mr. Trowbridge’s own; the queer telephone call had nothing to do with the affair, and there you are!”
The case was certainly plain enough. The stained handkerchief showed clearly that it had been used to wipe a bloody blade. The long red marks were unmistakable. There was no chance that it might have been used as a bandage or aid to an injured person. The stains spoke for themselves, and proclaimed the horrid deed they mutely witnessed.
A few further questions brought only unintelligible replies from the Swede, and the verdict was speedy and unanimous.