y eye lighted
on a shabby cloth cap lying on the still undisturbed mattress just below
the pillow. I picked it up and looked it over curiously, for by its size
I could see that it did not belong to either of the men whom I had
secured. I took it over to the curtained window and carefully inspected
its lining; and suddenly I perceived, clinging to the coarse cloth, a
single short hair, which, even to the naked eye, had a distinctly
unusual appearance. With a trembling hand, I drew out my lens to examine
it more closely; and, as it came into the magnified field, my heart
seemed to stand still. For, even at that low magnification, its
character was unmistakable--it looked like a tiny string of pale gray
beads. Grasping it in my fingers, I dashed through the opening, slammed
the panels to, and rushed down to the parlor where I kept a small
microscope. My agitation was so intense that I could hardly focus the
instrument, but at last the object on the slide came into view: a broad,
variegated stripe, with its dark medulla and the little rings of air
bubbles at regular intervals. It was a typical ringed hair! And what was
the inference?

"The hair was almost certainly Piragoff's. Piragoff was a burglar, a
ruthless murderer, and he had ringed hair. The man whom I sought was a
burglar, a ruthless murderer, and had ringed hair. Then Piragoff was my
man. It was bad logic, but the probabilities were overwhelming. And I
had had the villain in the hollow of my hand and he had gone forth
unscathed!

"I ground my teeth with impotent rage. It was maddening. All the old
passion and yearning for retribution surged up in my breast once more.
My interest in the new specimens almost died out. I wanted Piragoff; and
it was only the new-born hope that I should yet lay my hand on him that
carried me through that time of bitter disappointment."

VII

THE UTTERMOST FARTHING

Intense was the curiosity with which I turned to the last entry in
Humphrey Challoner's "Museum Archives." Not that I had any doubt as to
the issue of the adventure that it recorded. I had seen the specimen
numbered "twenty-five" in the shallow box, and its identity had long
since been evident. But this fact mitigated my curiosity not at all. The
"Archives" had furnished a continuous narrative--surely one of the
strangest ever committed to writing--and now I was to read the climax of
that romantically terrible story; to witness the final achievement of
that obj