A MASTER HAND

THE STORY OF A CRIME

BY RICHARD DALLAS

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1903

Copyright, 1903
BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Published, August, 1903

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

"It is no use," he said; "I can see by the papers that everybody thinks I am guilty."

INTRODUCTORY

Twenty years have passed since the happening of the events, the history and sequel of which I am going to relate. It is the tale of a crime committed in one of the large cities of this country, and which, baffling the authorities at the time, still remains a mystery to all but myself and one other. Even now, at this late day, in deference to a plea that bore the seal of death, I shall only write of it with such changes of scene and names as I hope may prevent identification.

To me the history of this tragedy has always seemed convincing proof of the insufficiency of circumstantial evidence, except where such evidence is conclusive. I do not intend, however, to indulge in any abstract discussion of that subject, but shall consider that I have sufficiently fulfilled an obligation I owe to the law when I shall have submitted the bare facts of this particular case as I know them to have occurred.

While the changes of scene and names which I shall allow myself may involve some minor changes in the same line, I shall take no advantage of the opportunity that may thereby be afforded to complicate or exaggerate in any way the mystery that veiled the case, for to do so would be to subvert my purpose; but shall adhere to a plain statement of the facts, in every particular, as they successively discovered themselves to me. That it will prove an entertaining tale I do not promise, but that it will be a curious and interesting one I feel sure, and especially so to those who by profession are brought in contact with crime in its various phases.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY
CHAPTER I.—A Soliloquy
CHAPTER II.—A Game of Cards
CHAPTER III.—A Tragedy
CHAPTER IV.—The Suspect
CHAPTER V.—The Inquest
CHAPTER VI.—The Inquest Concluded
CHAPTER VII.—An Evening at the Club
CHAPTER VIII.—The Prosecution and the Prisoner
CHAPTER IX.—A Clue and a Conference
CHAPTER X.—The Trial
CHAPTER XI.—The Trial Concluded
CHAPTER XII.—An Episode and a Dinner
CHAPTER XIII.—The Truth at Last
CHAPTER XIV.—The Death of Winters

A MASTER HAND

CHAPTER I

A SOLILOQUY

On a Monday evening in January, 1883, I had returned comparatively late from work in the District Attorney's office in New York, and was in my rooms at the Crescent Club on Madison Square, corner of Twenty-sixth Street, making a leisurely toilet for dinner, when a note was brought me from Arthur White. In it he asked me to join a few mutual friends at his rooms on West Nineteenth Street off Fifth Avenue later in the evening for supper. He named the men—Gilbert Littell, Ned Davis, and Oscar Van Bult—who were to join him at euchre before supper. This was a favorite pastime with them, and I was bidden to come early, if I wished, and look on.

I did not play cards myself; not because of any scruples on the subject,—I had knocked about, a bachelor, long enough to take most things in a man's life as they come,—but because I did not care for games of any sort. I was, however, by my friends considered an unobjectionable onlooker—rather a rare reputation to enjoy, I may mention,—probably mine because I did not take sufficient interest in the play to either advise or criticise. It was not unpleasant, however, to sit by in White's attractive quarters and drink and smoke from his excellent sideboard. So having nothing better to do, I sent back word I would come, and getting into my evening clothes, went down to my dinner. It was not often I dined alone, as dinner to me was the occasion of the day and I deemed it incomplete, no matter how excellent the meal, without some congenial companion; but this evening I was later than usual, and so found no one available. Even the habitual acceptors who can always be depended upon in a club to give their society in return for a good dinner had all been engaged.

As I entered the dining-room, I saw my usual table reserved for me and my customary waiter on the outlook.

"You dine alone, sir, to-night?" he asked, as I took my seat, and then having suggested the outline of a light dinner, went off to give the order and bring my usual substitute for a companion, a magazine. To-night, however, I was not in the humor to read, but rather inclined to thoughts of the men brought to mind by White's invitation.

They were all intimate friends, and it is as well I should tell something about them here as another time, for they are destined to play more or