A STRANGE CLUE.

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      No doubt it is true that the pen is mightier than the sword, but in my hand the sword and the bridle are much more familiar implements than the quill, or the wretched scratchy steel pens you youngsters use nowadays. Of course I shall be called an antiquated old idiot, but, for my part, whenever I do write I still cling to the good old quill with which I had to transcribe my impositions at Eaton; almost the only long epistle I ever wrote in my life. And now, at the age of sixty-five, after a lengthy sojourn in India, and with very little liver to speak of — though a long liver among the Hindoos — people say I always will have my little joke — I find it a matter of some difficulty to wield the unfamiliar weapon.

      But I am going to show you upon what small hinges the great events of our lives sometimes turn by relating a true incident of my Indian experiences. I shall give no real names, though the actors in my little drama have all shuffled off this mortal coil. One of them, indeed, was only suspended. That, however, is a rather gruesome joke, as you will see — but at least I must not anticipate.

      Captain George Mortimer, of Ours, was one of the best fellows that ever lived, and my particular chum, both at Eton and under the broiling suns of India. He was killed, poor fellow, some years after the incident I shall tell you about, in a small affair with the natives, struck down before my very eyes, and only able to resign into my keeping the welfare of his little daughter, before he died. She is now my daughter-in-law, and is sitting near me and teasing me to know what I am writing so much about.

      But though a man of many parts, a good soldier, and a staunch friend, poor George had his peculiarities, as I suppose we all have in some way or another. He was taciturn in the extreme, hardly ever speaking unless spoken to, except when alone with me, and had habits of such unusual carefulness that the younger men of the regiment had nicknamed him "Granny Mortimer." And, indeed, he is still remembered as "poor old Granny." But they all liked him and respected him, from the new cornet to the colonel, and no man among us had more command over the men than he had. Poor old Granny would never pass by a pin or the smallest piece of string, did it happen to catch his eve, but would pick it up and stick the pin in his coat or roll the string into a little ball and put it in his pocket. Nor did this arise in any way from meanness. He had a good private income, and spent his money as freely as any of us, though perhaps more carefully.

      And out of this idiosincracy of his arose the incident of my story; indeed, he was the pivot upon which it turned, the instrument, if you like, by which a strange fatalism brought to justice an undiscovered murderer.

      One evening in the year 18—, poor George and myself — we were at one the largest stations up country — were sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening after the heat of the day. We were smoking and talking about things in general at first, then gradually our thoughts and conversations turned to Old England, and the dear ones at home, and then, as people will, we ceased to speak at all, and sank into a reverie which lasted, I know not how long. A gentle wind was blowing, I remember, for it is a somewhat strange thing to feel one's cheek gently fanned in India. It is either a tempest or a perfect calm there as a rule. The cool shade was most luxuriant, and home thoughts were all we had to occupy our minds.

      Perhaps half an hour afterwards the sound of a distant bugle brought me to myself, and with a last sigh for a sight of what our German cousins would call Vaterland I suddenly awoke to the fact that my cigar was out. I remember lazily feeling for my matchbox, and finding it empty. These little things small as they are, all came back to me afterwards, when I discovered how peculiarly they bore upon the case, and perceived how well an unerring fate had laid its trap for an unsuspecting victim. And we and our want of matches that evening were instrumental in bringing a forgotten murder home to its perpetrator.

      "Throw me a match, Granny," I said. I had to repeat my request again before George roused himself.

     | He heard me the second time, and produced his matchbox and threw it across to me. I opened it and found it empty.

      "Confound it," I exclaimed, "there are none."

      "Never mind," he said, and in his characteristic manner stooped and picked up a piece of newspaper which had been fluttering gently in the breeze.

      It was a small piece, perhaps the size of a quarter of a sheet of notepaper.

      Now I should have screwed it into a spill immediately to get a light from the lamp which hung in the doorway, for it was already getting dusk.

      But not so our careful Granny. He must needs read one side slowly through, and then turn it over nad peruse the other. I am not impatient, as a rule, but I wanted a light, and George's slowness rather irritated me.

      "Pass it over, George," I exclaimed.

      He did not answer, but taking his legs off the verandah, where they has been resting, sat upright in his chair and looked with a puzzled, interested expression at the paper in his hand. Twice he read it through, and then, passing it to me, said:

      "Read it before you burn it."

      I took it, suspecting nothing more than a smart or witty paragraph, and read it. I cannot give a copy of what I saw, for the paper was sent to England afterwards, and was either lost or is stored away among the curiosities of some lawyer's office. Anyway it was lost to us. The paper, which bore a date just ten years before almost to a day, contained an account of a wife murder which had been committed at a place called H——, in the West of England. It went on to describe the murderer in detail, and also said that so far the police had been at fault in "discovering his whereabouts." The most remarkable thing in the details with regard to the murderer's personal appearance consisted in the fact that, although a man of peculiarly dark, almost swarthy, skin, and black hair, he possessed a red, or, as the paper said, "a decidedly carrotty moustache," which is a strange, if not altogether a rare phenomenon. But the description was made complete by mention of a peculiar scar which existed on the right cheek of the murderer. The name had, no doubt, been mentioned, but that part of the paper had been torn off.

      I read the paragraph through, but failed totally to see any particular purport in it, or anything that could affect anyone about me, and was about to roll the paper up into a spill, when George reached out his hand for it, saying, "Wait a minute. Does nothing strike you about the case?"

      "No," I said, "except that I want a light for my cigar."

      "Seriously, though," he replied. "Think a minute. Black hair, dark skin, red moustache, and the scar on the right cheek. Doesn't that make you think of somebody?"

      "It makes me think of what must be a very ugly face. What does it make you think of?" I asked.

      "Reflect a minute and see if you cannot tell me."

      He had such a serious look about him that I began to get interested, and for the first time really troubled to picture to myself what a man with the described attributes would be like. And then it flashed across me like lightning, and I jumped excitedly from my seat with the exclamation, "By Jove!"

      "Ah!" he said, "do you catch the idea now?"

      "Why, Granny," I exclaimed, as soon as I could recover myself, "you've mistaken your avocation. You should have been a detective."

      "So it seems," he answered. "Perhaps I am one. What shall we do?"

      That question of his set me thinking. The position was more serious than I had quite thought it, for I wasn't given to thinking much about anything in those days. It happened that a sergeant of Ours answered the given description in every respect. And now the question arose as to what we were to do. To accuse a man after so many years, and a man bearing an excellent character for discipline, and work on what might turn out to be only a chance resemblance, was not to be thought about for an instant. And yet, as officers and young ones, assiduous in their duty, we felt it incumbent upon us to do something.

      "There can't be any mistake," said Granny, with an air of conviction.

      "No," I said, "it's Sergeant Bonder to a T."

      "Not a doubt of it. Let's see him."

      "All right," I said, "but let us be careful."

      "Certainly," he said, "but leave that to me."

      I didn't like the whole business much myself, and was quite willing to leave it to him. I had faith enough in his prudent ways to know that he would do the right thing.

      Well, to cut a long story short, we despatched a for Sergeant Bonder, and in a few minutes he came and stood a salut a few paces from us. Without any hesitation or preliminaries, George addressed him, "Were you ever in H——, sergeant?"

      "H——, sir?" said the sergeant.

      The stolid calm which usually stood for expression on the sergeant's face — discipline combined with a self-contained temperament had made this man almost a machine — for the first time in my recollection left his countenance, and a peculiar startled look came in its place. I fancied also that he paled slightly, but the light was hardly strong enough for me to be sure.

      "Yes, man, H——!" said George. "Were you ever there?"

      "I — I was, sir," he replied, "many years ago."

      "Ten years ago, perhaps," continued Granny, "more or less, sir." The fellow assented in a hesitating manner."

      "Do you remember this case, Sergeant Bonder?" asked Granny, handing the piece of paper to him.

      He took it, forgetting to salute, which was not like him as a soldier, and, after just glancing at it, cried out in an agonised voice, "Oh God, at last," and fell in a swoon at our feet. Self-condemned, he was arrested, and a few days later shipped to England, where after a trial which elicited much public notice at the time, he was hanged.

      Such is my little story. Whether one believes in the fatalistic shaping of means to an end or in a chapter of accidents bringing about an unforeseen result, the string of events which led to the conviction of Sergeant Bonder is equally strange. It is strange that neither Granny nor myself had any matches that night stranger still that the piece of newspaper should be close at hand — we could never discover how or from where it came there — and very remarkable that Granny should be the one into whose hands it fell. I should never have given it a second thought beyond lighting my pipe with it. We both agreed it was rather had on Bonder, who, though undoubtedly guilty of murder, was anything but a confirmed criminal, and may have been expiating by years of hard work the result of a moment's passion.