“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however, close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr. Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring it back to the office later.
“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”
Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is at hand!”
The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice, “No, I never saw him—”
“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but, instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed, I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the train.
“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”
Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.
