The Saintsbury papers were thrown on our train several stations beyond the town. I bought one, of course, and unfolded it with a cheerful feeling of being near home again,--and there stared at me from the first page the glaring headlines,--

CLYDE A CRIMINAL
THE REFORM CANDIDATE FOR MAYOR
A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE

AMAZING RECORD OF CRIME AND
CONCEALMENT DISCOVERED BY
THE SAMOVAR

I tore my way through the leaded paragraphs. The only thing that was news to me was the clue on which the Samovar had worked.

According to the high-flown account, Barker had left at the Samovar office, on the night on which he was killed, a large sealed envelope addressed to himself, with the added direction:

"If this is not called for within five days, it is to be opened by the Managing Editor of the Samovar."

It would appear that this was the errand that was occupying Barker while I sat waiting for him in his office! I could not refrain from pausing to admire the rascal\'s cleverness. He was anticipating--not the death which came so swiftly, but--a visit from Clyde, or possibly Clyde\'s representative, and he had adroitly made it impossible for Clyde to control the situation by force or coercion. The story was written out and in the hands of the paper which would most gladly profit by the disclosure, though it was still, for five days, subject to Barker\'s own recall, if he were properly treated! It certainly was a reserve of the most unquestionable value in diplomatic negotiations.

The Samovar went on to say that after the sensation of Barker\'s death, the envelope had been held inviolate for the specified time, and had then been opened by Burleigh in the presence of witnesses.

The story as written by Barker was then set forth in full. It recited briefly that Barker had been present at a court trial in Houston, Texas, some fifteen years before, at which one Tom Johnson had been convicted of the murder of a man named Henley, and sentenced to death. The prisoner had escaped from the sheriff immediately after conviction, and had never been captured. Then Mr. Barker proceeded:

"Two or three years ago I saw Mr. Kenneth Clyde in Saintsbury, and greatly to my surprise, I recognized in him the missing Tom Johnson. I charged him with the identity, and he did not deny it. He then and afterwards freely admitted to me that he was the man who, under another name, had been convicted of murder and had made his escape. I have refrained from making this information public out of consideration for Mr. Clyde, but I feel it a public duty to leave this record where, if certain contingencies should arise, it may be found."

(The contingency which the writer had in mind was probably a refusal on the part of Clyde to continue paying blackmail. That would undoubtedly have made Mr. Barker\'s public duty weigh upon his tender conscience.)

The Samovar then went on to say that the story at first seemed incredible, and therefore the witnesses were all sworn to secrecy until the matter could be investigated. A special representative had been sent to Texas to look it up. The writer then modestly emphasized the difficulties of the undertaking, and his own astonishing cleverness in mastering them. He had actually found the court records to establish the tale of the late lamented Mr. Barker, whose untimely taking off with this public service still unperformed would have been nothing less (under the present political circumstances) than a civic calamity. Tom Johnson had been convicted of the treacherous and bloody murder of his friend. (The details were then given in substantial agreement with the story which Clyde had told me.)

"But who," the happy historian went on to say, "who would have guessed, who would have dared suggest, who would have ventured to believe, that this obscure criminal, snatching the stolen cloak of freedom from the heedless hands of careless officials, and skulking off with it by the underground passages known to the criminal classes,--who would have believed that this false friend, this wretch, this felon, was none other than the Reform Candidate for Mayor of Saintsbury? The charge is so incredible that we may well be asked,--Where lies the proof of identity, beyond the word of Alfred Barker, now cold in death? The man who so long had successfully covered up his past, may well have felt, when Barker met his tragic fate, that at last he could walk in security, since the one witness who, in a period of fifteen years, had identified him, was now disposed of. But murder will out. The truth, though crushed to earth, will live again. The sun in the heavens has been summoned as a witness. While Tom Johnson was in jail, awaiting trial, an enterprising paper of the place secured several photographs of the prisoner. These our representative found in an old file of the paper. We reproduce below, side by side, the photographs of Tom Johnson, lying under an unexecuted sentence for murder, and of Kenneth Clyde, reform candidate for mayor. They speak for themselves."

They did, indeed. It was like a blow in the face to see the pictures side by side, even in the coarse newspaper print. The handsome, defiant face of the younger man had been softened and refined and had grown thoughtful,--but it was the same face. If Clyde had wanted to deny the accusation (though I knew that he would not think for a moment of that course,) it would have been fruitless. The photographs made it impossible.

As I studied them, I thought that any woman who loved him,--his mother or another,--should certainly be ready to give thanks on her knees for the changes that the fifteen years had wrought. As a young fellow he had clearly been rather too handsome. That any man with so much of the "beauty of the devil" had been marked by the stars for a tumultuous career was most obvious. There was spiritual tragedy in every lineament. On the other hand, there was no deviltry in the seriously handsome face of the man of to-day. You did not even think first of his good looks, the deeper significance of character had so come to the surface. Certainly, the shadow under which Clyde had lived had fostered the best in him.

The newspaper scribe ended his paragraph with a cruel innuendo:

"The sudden death of Alfred Barker at a time when Clyde had most to fear from the secret in his knowledge would have had a sinister appearance, if that apparent mystery had not been promptly solved by the confession of Eugene Benbow. Clyde should acknowledge his indebtedness to the convenient Benbow."

The fact that I had had a bad quarter of an hour convincing myself that Clyde had had nothing to do with the matter did not make me less indignant with the astute newspaper scribbler. And I saw further complications in the subject. If I cleared Gene--as I fully meant to do--it would be necessary to do it by bringing the real murderer to light. To clear Gene by simply proving that he was not on the spot (assuming that to be possible) would be merely to transfer the shadow of doubt to Clyde. It was a bad tangle.

The moment I reached the Saintsbury station, I tried to get into communication with Clyde. He might not care to have me act as his legal adviser in this more serious development of his case, but at least I must give him the opportunity to decline.

It was eight o\'clock when the train pulled in, and I went at once to the private telephone booth and tried to get Clyde. His office was closed and did not answer,--I had expected that. His residence telephone likewise "didn\'t answer." Then I called up the chief of police, and asked whether Clyde had been arrested, basing my inquiry on the Samovar story. He had not,--though it took me some time to get that statement out of the close-mouthed officials of the law. Then I called up Mr. Whyte\'s residence, hoping to get some hint of the situation as it affected my friends. It was Jean Benbow\'s voice that answered my call.

"Oh, it\'s you!" she cried, and the intonation of her voice was the most flattering thing I have ever heard in my life--almost. "Oh, I always did know that there must be special providences for special occasions, and if anybody ever thinks there aren\'t, I\'ll tell them about your calling up at just this moment, and they\'ll know. The most dreadful thing has happened,--"

"I have seen the Evening Samovar. Is that what you mean?"

"Oh, yes! Mrs. Whyte is at my elbow and she says I must tell you to come right up here in a jiffy--only she didn\'t say jiffy, but that is what she meant. She says now that I must not stand here and keep you talking, though really I know it is I that is talking,--or should I say am talking? But you understand. And Mrs. Whyte says you must jump into a cab and come up at once. Mr. Whyte wants to consult with you." The communication stopped with an abruptness that suggested external assistance.

It was Jean herself who admitted me. She must have been watching out for me, for she had the door open and was half way down the steps to meet me before I was fairly on Mr. Whyte\'s cement walk.

"Oh, but I am thankful to see you," she said earnestly. "Ever since that paper came this afternoon, I have been in a dream! I mean an awful dream, you know,--almost a nightmare. It seemed so unreal. Though I suppose that is what real life is like, maybe?" She looked at me inquiringly.

"I never saw anything like it before, and I have lived a real life for many more years than you have," I answered, meaning to reassure her.

She looked at me under her lashes. "Oh, not so very many more! Not enough to--to make any real difference. But you don\'t know how queer it seems to me to have things happening like this all around you. First Gene, and now Mr. Clyde. Do you believe it is true, Mr. Hilton?"

"I can\'t form an opinion from newspaper tales alone," I said evasively.

By this time we were at the door, where Mrs. Whyte was waiting, with Mr. Whyte at her shoulder. They both looked worried.

"You have seen the paper?" Whyte asked, while we were shaking hands.

"Yes. On the train. Do you know where Clyde is?"

"No. I tried to get him by \'phone, but I couldn\'t find him, and he knows where to find me, if he wants to. What do you think of it?"

I could only repeat that I could not express an opinion without more reliable information,--blessed subterfuge of the lawyer!

Mrs. Whyte broke in emphatically. "Well, I for one do not believe it. You needn\'t look so wise, Carroll, as though you meant to imply that we can\'t be sure of anyone until he is dead. I knew Kenneth Clyde wh............