During the past few months I have
been making this investigation, to find that the supposed immaculate
Harper Elliston is known in Gotham in certain circles as a gambler and
villain of the deepest dye. He has committed some crimes that are
worse than murder. Now, as to the wart: It was soon after I had heard
of the murder on the express train, that while riding in the smoking
car of an emigrant train in Iowa, I saw an old man deliberately slice
a huge wart from his little finger with a keen-edged knife. The wart
fell under the seat and rolled at my feet. The old man made no effort
to recover it, but wrapped his bleeding hand in a handkerchief and
muttered: 'THAT witness will never come up to trouble me.' There was
something in the man's voice that sounded familiar, and the strange
whiteness of his hands aroused my suspicions, for in dress and
appearance the man was a laborer of the lower class. Curiosity, if
nothing stronger, prompted me to take possession of the severed wart
that had rolled at my feet. Soon after that I read the notice in a
newspaper, to the effect that the assassin of the express train had
left the imprint of a wart on the bosom of the dead man's shirt. Since
that time I have regarded hands with no little interest, and have
looked for the old man of the emigrant car in vain."

"An interesting recital," said the detective, when Harry Bernard came
to a pause. "Knowing all this, you kept it from me at St. Louis."

"My reason for that was, that I did not care to arouse any foolish
theories. Of course, the reporter's story might have been false. The
wart on my own hand, somewhat similar to this, led me to keep my own
council as a matter of personal safety. Although I suspected Elliston,
I had no proof, since I had forgotten the fact of his ever having a
wart on the little finger of his right hand. My principal hope has
been in finding the old man of the emigrant train."

"You have not found him?"

"Not unless Elliston is the man."

"Did you suspect this before now?"

"I did; now I am convinced."

Just then Harry Bernard chanced to raise his eyes and gaze out of the
open window.

He came suddenly to his feet with a startled exclamation.

Dyke Darrel glanced out of the window to notice a bent old man, with
white hair and beard, moving away from the vicinity of the house.
Evidently he had been looking into the room, if not listening to the
conversation of the trio.

"Saints of Rome! there is the