Free Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries by Melville Davisson Post

monsieur?” he said.
    â€œThat you are in danger of your life—for one thing.”
    â€œIn what danger?”
    â€œDo you come from the south of Europe,” replied Abner, “and forget that when a man is killed there are others to threaten his assassin?”
    â€œBut this Blackford has no kin to carry a blood feud,” said the mountebank.
    â€œAnd so,” cried Abner, “you knew that before you killed him. And yet, in spite of that precaution, there stood a man in the crowd before the justice of the peace who held your life in his hand. He had but to speak.”
    â€œAnd why did he not speak—this man?” said the mountebank, looking at Abner across the table.
    â€œI will tell you that,” replied Abner. “He feared that the justice of the law might contravene the justice of God. It is a fabric woven from many threads—this justice of God. I saw three of these threads today stretching into the great loom, and I feared to touch them lest I disturb the weaver at his work. I saw men see a murder and not know it. I saw a child see its father and not know it, and I saw a letter in the handwriting of a man who did not write it.”
    The face of the old mountebank did not whiten, but instead it grew stern and resolute, and the muscles came out in it so that it seemed a thing of cords under the tanned skin.
    â€œThe proofs,” he said.
    â€œThey are all here,” replied Abner.
    He stooped, lifted the sheaf of knives, broke the string and spread them on the table. He selected the one from which Blackford’s blood had been wiped off.
    â€œRandolph examined this knife,” he continued, “but not the others; he assumed that they are all alike. Well, they are not. The others are dull, but this one has the edge of a razor.”
    And he plucked a piece of paper from the table and sheared it in two. Then he put the knife down on the board and looked toward the far end of the wagon.
    â€œAnd the child’s face,” he said—“I was not certain of that until I saw Blackford’s ironed out under the hand of death, and then I knew. And the letter—”
    But the old man was on his feet straining over the table, his features twitching like a taut rope.
    â€œHush! Hush!” he said.
    There came a little gust of wind that whispered in the dry grass and blew the dead leaves against the wagon and about my face. They fluttered like a presence, these dead leaves, and pecked and clawed at the gilded panel like the nails of some feeble hand. I began to be assailed with fear as I sat there alone in the darkness looking in upon this tragedy.
    My Uncle Abner sat down, and the old man remained with the palms of his hands pressed against the table. Finally he spoke.
    â€œMonsieur,” he said, “shall a man lead another into hell and escape the pit himself? Yes, she is his daughter, and her mother was mine, and I have killed him. He could not speak, but with those letters he persuaded her.”
    The man paused and turned over the packet of yellow envelopes tied up with faded ribbon.
    â€œAnd she believed what a woman will always believe. What would you have done, monsieur? Go to the law—your English law that gives the woman a pittance and puts her out of the court-house door for the ribald to laugh at! Diable! Monsieur, that is not the law. I know the law, as my father and my father’s father, and your father and your father’s father knew it. I would have killed him then, when she died, but for this child. I would have followed him into these hills,day after day, like his shadow behind him, until I got a knife into him and ripped him up like a butchered pig. But I could not go to the hangman and leave this child, and so I waited.”
    He sat down.
    â€œWe can wait, monsieur. That is one thing we have in my country—patience. And when I was ready I killed him.”
    The old man paused and put out his hand, palm upward,