“When the cars stopped at Blankville, this person arose and followed Henry Moreland from the car. I saw him step off the platform behind him, which was the last I saw of either of them.”
It may be imagined with what a thrill of fearful interest we listened to this account, and the thousand conjectures to which it gave rise.
“It can not be difficult,” I exclaimed, “to find other witnesses to testify of this man.”
We were assured by James that every effort had been made to get some trace of him. No person answering to the description was a resident of the village, and no one could be heard of as having been seen in the vicinity. Not a solitary lounger about the depot, or the hotel close at hand, could recall that he had seen such a stranger leave the cars; no such person had stopped at the hotel; even the conductor of the train could not be certain of such a passenger, though he had a dim recollection of a rough fellow in the car with Mr. Moreland—he had not observed where he left the train—thought his ticket was for Albany.
“But we do not despair of some evidence, yet,” said Mr. Argyll.
“The New York police, not being able to do any thing further here, have gone home,” continued James. “If such a villain lurks in New York, he will be found. That scar on the hand is a good point for identifying him—don’t you think so, sir?” to Mr. Burton.
“Well—yes! unless it was put on for the purpose. It may have been done in red ocher, and washed off afterward. If the fellow was a practiced hand, as the skill and precision of the blow would imply, he will be up to all such tricks. If he had a real scar, he would have worn gloves on such an errand.”
“You think so?” and James drew a long breath, probably of discouragement at this new statement of the case.
“I would like to go down to the depot, and along the docks for an hour,” continued Mr. Burton, “if there’s nothing else to be done immediately.”
James politely insisted upon accompanying us.