The days of the ensuing fortnight were terrible ones indeed to me. Crime upon crime was perpetrated, and almost every night the news of some dreadful deed of violence was telephoned up to head-quarters. Robbery was now added to murder, and upon every occasion when the murderer had time he thoroughly and systematically rifled the pockets of his victims, taking everything of value away.

The murderer seemed to bear almost a charmed life. Time after time, he escaped only by the skin of his teeth. Three times he was seen close at hand, and twice he was actually interrupted when bending over the dead. But he got away always, and the description that we received of him was meager and unsatisfactory to a degree. He was described as dressed in dark clothes, as of slim build and of about medium height; but he was wearing some kind of gray cloth over his face and nothing of his features was seen.

He was well armed and when chased, as upon two occasions he was, he used an automatic freely. One of the Norwood patrols was shot, both in the arm and in the thigh.

His victims were of any class and one of my own patrol-men was killed in Norwood his pockets picked and his armlet taken.

Apparently the murderer was abroad every night, and apparently, too, there was no part of the city that was not within the scope of his operations.

The public was roused to a dreadful pitch of anger, and the specials now came in for almost as much adverse criticism as the regular police. The Chief used to smile grimly when he met me and, if he did not say anything, he would pretend to handle his neck very gingerly, as if he were already feeling the noose he had so often prophesied for us both.

Apparently, suspicion had now been entirely diverted from me, and I was no longer being shadowed. I was so often now actually under the very eyes of the police when trouble was occurring in another part of the city, that it would have been absurd, on the face of it, to connect me in any way with the crimes.

But if the police no longer worried me, I was a terrible grief and torture to myself. As time went on, I blamed myself more and more for all the horrors that were taking place, and I was fully convinced that it was my own evil example that had inflamed and set in action the awful proclivities of the wretch who was now terrorising the city.

I made myself quite ill over the matter, brooding over it night and day; to the exclusion even of Lucy it filled my thoughts.

But my unrest was not for one moment the barren grieving of a man who had done wrong and is just weakly sorry for it. I was determined to atone for it as far as lay within my power, and, indeed, towards the end it became quite an obsession with me that Fate had somehow destined me to track out and rid the city of this new monster, as part atonement for my crimes.

Over and over again, I wondered who the man could be and from what part of the city he emerged at night to carry on his crime.

Hour upon hour I used to sit with a large ordnance map before me and weigh up the probabilities as to where he would live.

For many days it seemed hopeless. Then gradually the idea began to crystallise in me that he would be living by the sea. I never knew quite what made me first think of it, but I was perhaps helped on by the appearance in one of the morning papers of a very ordinary letter complaining about someone who had been shooting sea-gulls on the sands. The writer of the letter — I think he wrote from Semaphore — was very angry.

Two mornings later, he wrote, he had noticed when bicycling along the sands that some blackguard had been wantonly shooting a number of these beautiful birds, about a mile and a half north of the jetty at Grange. Upon each occasion he had counted more than a dozen of them lying dead just by the margin of the waves, and upon examination he had found they had all been shot with bullets of a very small calibre. Probably a little .22 rifle, he thought, had been used. It was disgraceful, he argued, that it should be allowed, and in some hopefully expectant way he called upon the police and public to interfere.

There was nothing particular in the letter itself, but it brought up vividly to me what I had done in the beginning of my crimes. I remembered the first lust of taking life when I had killed Boulters rabbits, and I wondered hazily if the death of these poor birds were part, too, of the awful drama now taking place under our very eyes.

What if the murderer lived somewhere near Grange? It was very lonely about there on the north side of the sandhills, and it would fit in so well with everything else.

He would almost surely be living by himself, for otherwise his continual outings at night must certainly have been noticed. He would also have to be living in some lonely spot where he could slink in at any time without being noticed; the countryside was so thoroughly roused by now that any suspicious action on anyone’s part would be commented upon at once.

Then, too, there was the question of his getting home at night. The train service on the Grange line would dovetail in admirably with all the times the crimes had been committed in the other suburbs of the city. They had never occurred later than eleven at night — the time the last train left Adelaide for Grange — except once, when a man had been attacked at Alberton just before midnight. Alberton, however, was well within walking distance of Grange, and to anyone who knew his way across the sandhills the journey could be done easily under the hour.

Then again — the two first murders had both taken place at points served by the railway going to Grange, and, thinking again of my own horrors, I remembered how I had first given way to my impulses within easy distance of my own home.

It was a Sunday morning when the idea first struck me definitely about the possibility of the murderer being at Grange, and that afternoon Lucy and I had a long walk along the sandhills by the sea.

As I remembered, it was very lonely beyond Grange. The district was not without habitations, but in some places the bungalows were very few and far between. Some, indeed, were quite a quarter of a mile from each other and one in particular I noticed as surrounded on every side by a wide lonely belt of undulating sand. In was a fine big place, however, and, perched high upon a rather large sandhill, enjoyed quite an extensive view of the surrounding country. Built evidently by some rich man, I thought, who wanted to live quite by himself, and yet be quite near to the comforts and refinement of civilisation.

We could see no sign of any inhabitants, but the hoarse barking of dogs when we passed showed clearly that the place was inhabited.

Next morning I did not go up to business. I rang up the firm and said I was not feeling very well. I asked if I could be spared for two or three days until I felt better.

Mr. William was exceedingly nice and told me at once to take a week if necessary, and be sure to go out and get plenty of fresh air.

I felt more hopeful that morning than I had been for many days. At last I had some settled plan in my mind, and I wanted to put my theories to the test.

There were four stations adjoining the sea on the Grange line, and at each I in turn made the same enquiries. I went straight to the point at once. I told them who I was, and what I wanted to know. Did they remember anyone who had got out by himself upon the arrival of the last train from Adelaide on the Friday night previously, and had they noticed anyone in particular who had lately been habitually using the last train to come home by?

Full of my idea, I tried Grange itself first, and my enquiries immediately evoked a broad grin of amusement from the ticket collector there.

“Bless your heart, Mr. Wacks,” he said pityingly, “why there’s been lots here on that stunt already. Back six or seven weeks there were ‘tecs here, on duty, every night — meeting everybody who came by the last train, questioning them and following them up and finding all about them and where they lived. But it was no good — nothing happened and in a few days they gave it all up. No — I haven’t seen anyone unusual lately, and I am quite sure there wasn’t anyone on Friday that I didn’t know.”

The reply was certainly very disheartening, but I had my own reasons for knowing the difference of things six weeks ago and now, and so continued my enquiries along the line. But nothing resulted, and I was returning very dispiritedly to the city when as a last resort I thought I would try a fifth station — the one before Grange and quite two miles from the sea. It was surrounded almost entirely by long sandy stretches of flat waste-land that stretched monotonously away until, on the seaward side, they ultimately reached the belt of sandhills between them and the sea. It was a very lonely place and, except for the golf club-house in one direction, there were no houses at all until within a few hundred yards of Grange itself. So unimportant was the station that there was no booking office — tickets being issued and collected by the guard upon the train.

It was not until I had watched the passing of two trains that I was enabled to light upon the guard who had been on duty the previous Friday night. Then I had to travel back with him to Grange in his van in order to elicit the information that I required.

But it was well worth it, as I soon found. Fortunately, he was an intelligent young fellow, and quite appreciated the possible importance of my enquiries.

“Yes,”— he knew me well by reputation, he said; he had heard me speak at Hindmarsh and his brother was in the patrol there. He remembered Friday night perfectly well. Two persons had got out at the little station and he didn’t think they were together. One was Wendover the grocer, who had a little shop at the cross-roads, about a hundred yards away, and the other, Porteous, the caretaker for Mr. Silas Magrath at the Grange. He was afraid, however, they wouldn’t either of them be much good to me, for they were both of them most respectable men. “Yes,”— he had certainly seen the caretaker several times lately by that train. He used to get out there, because, he said, it was almost as near as going on to Grange.

Mr. Magrath’s house was the last one on the sea front at Grange and nearly two miles north of the jetty. The walk over the sandy field land wasn’t at all bad if you only knew the way. You could follow the railway for nearly a mile and then turn straight off across the sand tracks direct to the house. Of course it was lonely, but when the moon was up it would be quite a nice walk. Mr. Magrath was away — he had been abroad for some months. Yes, his house was the big one on the rise, and he kept two large and fierce dogs. He was an eccentric old chap.

All this I took in quickly as the train rattled on to Grange. I thanked my informant for all he had told me and he promised most religiously to hold his tongue and say nothing, to the caretaker, least of all.

I was rather excited and very interested in what the guard had told me. Of course, it might all mean nothing in the end, but still I thought it was quite well worth going on with. Although very tired already with so much walking, I cheerfully set out to have a closer look at the house.

It was then about three in the afternoon. As I approached the house I saw a man, whom I at once guessed to be the caretaker, sitting on the broad low wall that completely surrounded the house and garden at the back. The house was built right on the top of the sandhill, and the garden behind sloped downhill away from the sea. In addition to the wall — there was a wide, deep ditch all round, with a fence of stout barbed wire in front.

Directly I got near, two huge, fierce-looking dogs appeared out of an outhouse in the yard, and commenced to growl and stalk menacingly along the wall in my direction.

Their master swore angrily at them and they stopped their advance reluctantly, but they still continued to growl fiercely and eye me with obvious disfavor.

My heart beat just a little quicker when I saw the caretaker was a man near to my own build, except that possibly he was just a little bit shorter. He was about thirty, very dark, and had the unmistakable yellow skin of a man who has lived in the tropics.

He scowled at me — very much as the dogs had done, I thought, and asked me roughly what I wanted.

I asked him politely how far it was to Semaphore, and when he replied abruptly that he didn’t know I asked him for a glass of water. He refused point-blank, and bade me rudely go back along the path I had come.

“You’re trespassing,” he shouted; “you’ve no right to be where you are. This is all my land here. Go off at once or I shan’t be able to keep the dogs in any longer.”

I turned away reluctantly, but looking back when I had gone about a hundred yards, I saw he was still watching me. He was seated in the same position, but now he had got a rifle in his hand. I supposed he wanted to frighten me.

Sitting at home that evening I was very puzzled about what to make out of my interview. One thing I was certain stood out clear — the man couldn’t be in a normal state of mind, for such a little had so soon roused his temper, and bringing out the rifle, as he had done undoubtedly to intimidate me, was a certain indication of the unbalanced state he was in.

He seemed the very type of man I was looking for, and I determined to find out more about him.

The next morning I was up very early and long before six was securely hidden among the grass of an adjoining sandhill not three hundred yards from the residence of Mr. Silas Magrath. I had got a good pair of binoculars with me and could plainly rake every part of the garden and yard and a good part of the house itself.

The caretaker was a long while in appearing, but the two dogs were in evidence all the time. They prowled restlessly to and fro about the yard, but they were held safe on very long chains and I was thankful they could not get away. They made no noise, but many times, when for a few moments they stood still, I though I could see through the glasses that they were intently peering in my direction. It could be only imagination I knew, but I was so close that I could plainly see the bloodshot whites of their fierce and dreadful eyes.

About nine o’clock the caretaker himself appeared, and, greatly to my consternation, propped himself against the wall, and for quite a quarter of an hour intently studied every yard of the landscape around with a pair of binoculars that strangely seemed very similar to my own.

He turned the glasses in every direction, and I was fearful every moment that they would rest on me, but I huddled low down in my bed of sand and trusted hopefully that my screen of grass would hide me.

Apparently he found nothing to disturb him, and after some time he went back into the house. He came out again presently and fed the dogs. Then I saw nothing of him until well past noon.

It was blistering hot where I lay, so hot that I did not dare touch the sand around with my bare hand. A hundred and ten in the shade at least, it must have been, but I stuck it out grimly, and at last I got my reward. The caretaker came out in a skimpy old bathing suit to have a bathe.

I held my breath at the bare idea of the possibilities of it all. If only he would take the dogs with him, I thought, I would get down and have a nearer inspection of the house.

Everything favored me. He brought out the inevitable binoculars again and had a good stare round in every direction, except in the one in which I lay. Then he threw his towel over his shoulder and, bending down, unloosed the dogs. I noticed he took their collars off, and I rejoiced that they, too, were going to participate in the bathe. Finally, he locked the back door, and, oh joy, put the key under a pail in the corner of the yard.

The dogs rushed off before him, jumping and barking in delight, and a few seconds later the house stood quiet and solitary by itself.

I did not lose any time, and did not even stop to think either. It seemed to me the most natural thing possible to go and search the house. I never counted the risks. I had a revolver on me, and wasn’t in the least afraid.

He couldn’t have left the place three minutes before I was down and inside the house.

I closed the door behind me very gently, determined not to be taken unawares if he came back unexpectedly.

There were a lot of rooms in the house, but I soon saw that only one of them — the kitchen — was being used.

The back door opened directly into the kitchen, and I at once noticed an untidy, unmade bed, with positively filthy sheets, under the window. There was part of a loaf and a piece of Bologna sausage on the table, a single cup and spoon, and the usual paraphernalia for making tea. There were crumbs and the remains of other kinds of food lying about, and altogether it was quite plain to see that the caretaker was not of a particular or fastidious turn of mind.

I passed quickly into the hall, and there I certainly had a surprise. It was a sort of large lounge hall and had been turned into a perfect armory for guns and rifles. Some were hanging on the wall, but far more were stacked in proper gun racks round the side. They all seemed modern and in good condition. All round the walls were trophies of the chase. Over the mantelpiece there glared down the largest bison head I could ever have imagined, and picturesquely curved above the hall door were the sinuous folds of a monster stuffed snake.

It was not difficult to determine what was the life hobby of the owner of the place. ‘Big game hunter’ stuck out everywhere in capital letters.

I looked into several of the rooms, but in all of them the furniture was stacked in the middle and covered over with dust cloths — so I didn’t linger for a moment longer than just to look in. I went back into the kitchen.

There was a brand new portmanteau under the table, but there was nothing in it. Standing at the bottom of the bed was a big trunk. I pulled eagerly at the lid, and it at once came open. There were some boots inside, a suit of clothes, and several odd undergarments, but nothing in particular to interest me. There was a large cupboard in the corner. The door was shut, and I looked round hurriedly for the key. I needn’t have troubled myself, for it was in the lock.

A great wave of disappointment went through me. I had counted so much on some secret and hidden mystery in the house, and now to find all things so carelessly open and left about just took the edge off my expectations.

I pulled open the door with a jerk, and immediately got all the shock I had ever hoped for.

A big gold chronometer was hanging right in front of me, and I recognised it instantly as Matthew Russell’s. With shaking fingers I took it off the nail and looked at the back. Yes, the monogram M. R. was there.

For quite half a minute I stood still in numb surprise. It was difficult for me to breathe, and I could hear the beatings of my heart. Thoughts surged like lightning through me. This man, then, was the murderer. It was I who had found him, and my dream of atonement was coming true.

But uncertainty then at once took hold of me. The watch didn’t prove anything; perhaps he had found it; perhaps he had picked it up and it might be only coincidence after all.

I looked hurriedly round upon the other things on the shelf. There were two automatics, a diamond ring, two more watches, three pocket books, a silver cigarette case — a lot of miscellaneous odds and ends and the armlet of a special constable with Unley marked on it.

No, there could be no mistake; it was the man right enough. There were two jackets, hanging up on a peg below the shelf. There were dark stains all down the front of one and the right sleeve of the other was caked over with what looked like dried blood. Lying down in a corner on the floor was a thick, short bar of iron.

I waited for no more, but quickly shut the cupboard door, and, now in an agony of suspense that I should be caught before I could summon help, tiptoed stealthily back across the kitchen floor.

Unfortunately, in turning round, I stepped on a plate that lay just behind me, and it broke with a loud crack. There were some scraps of food on it, and it had evidently been placed there for the dogs.

I swore at myself for my carelessness, and for a moment had half a mind to take the broken pieces away; but, I thought, then the caretaker would be sure to suspect something, and so I left them, chancing that he would imagine he had broken the plate himself.

I got safely out of the house; there was no sign yet of the caretaker, and from the distant barking of the dogs I judged he was still enjoying what I hoped would be his last bathe in the sea.

In half an hour I was on Grange station, but it was another half-hour fully before a train came in for Adelaide, and in my feverish and impatient state it seemed a terribly long wait for me.

I had made up my mind what I would do. I would go straight to the Chief Commissioner at once, and tell him all I had discovered — leaving him then to do what he thought best.

To my great dismay, when I got to Victoria Square the Chief was out. Inspector Wedlake and Meadows were, however, both there, and the former, at any rate, was intensely curious as to what I wanted the Chief so urgently for.

“Found out anything, Mr. Wacks?” he asked grinning. “Are you going to wipe our eye again, like you did over that Prospect affair?”

“Oh, dry up, Inspector,” I replied rudely. “Didn’t the Chief tell us only the other day that we weren’t to blab anything to outsiders, and you’re an outsider to me — so cut it out, please.”

The Inspector got nasty at once. “One thing I will say, Mr. Wacks,” he remarked unpleasantly, “there’s no one I’d rather put a pair of handcuffs on than you. No one in the State, sir.”

“I dare say,” I sneered, and, disdaining any further conversation with the man, sat down impatiently to wait for the return of the Chief.

It was close on four before he returned, and I could see at once that something had disturbed him, and that he was in a great hurry. We met in the passage, outside his room.

“I’ve hardly a moment,” he said quickly, but quite politely to me. “I’m fearfully busy, but I hear you’ve something urgent. What is it?”

“I’ve found out something, Chief,” I replied, bursting with excitement, but trying hard to speak calmly. “I know who the murderer is at last.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” And to my astonishment he grinned broadly. “Now I suppose his name doesn’t happen to be Meadows, by any chance, does it?”

I didn’t see the joke, and told him so flatly. His grin watered down at once ominously at my rudeness, but my next words instantly drove all the amusement from his face.

“I’ve seen Matthew Russell’s gold watch,” I went on sharply. “I’ve seen the automatic stolen from the man killed at Medindie on Friday, and I’ve seen the armlet taken from the murdered special in Unley.”

“What,” he exclaimed excitedly, “where have you been, man? Is that really so? Come in here quick,” and he almost dragged me into his room. “Now, tell me quietly, and we’ll see if your tale’s really different to the usual mare’s nest I’ve been treated to lately, almost every day.”

I sat down opposite to him as I had done once before, and a little resentfully, but as impressively as I could, told him everything that had happened to m............