The citizen-Republican. (Scotland, Bon Homme County, S.D.) 1???-19??, 1918-08-29

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needles which I used, an ebony walking
stick, two letters from Inspector verot
IN short, anything that might save the
culprits. Then how can any one know ?
No. nobody will know nor ever win
know anything.
unless--unIess some miracle han
pens-,inless the bomb leaves the walls
standing and the ceiling intact. I'm
less, by some marvel of intelligence
ana intuition, a man Of genius, I'M
travelling the threads which I have
tangled, should penetrate to the very
heart of the riddle and succeed, after
search lasting for months and
months, in discovering this final letter.
1t is for this man that | write, we'll
showing that he cannot exist. But
after all. what do care? Marie and
Sauverand will be at the bottom of
the abyss by then, dead NJ doubt. or
in any case separated forever. And I
risk nothing by leaving this evidence
OF my hatred in the hands of chance,
There, that's finished / have only
to sign. My hand shakes more and
more. The sweat is pouring from my
forehead in great drops. 1 am suffer-
ing the fortunes of the damned and I
an divinely happy! Aha, my friends,
you were waiting for my death!
You, Marie, imprudently let me read
in your eyes, which watched me
stealthily. all your delight at seeing
me SO III! And you Were both Of you
SO sure of the future that you had the
courage to wait patiently for my death!
Well, here it is, my DEATH! Here 1T Is
ana there are you, united above nv
grave, linked together with the hand
cuffs. Marie be the wife of my friend
sauverand. sauverand, 1 bestow my
spouse upon you. Be joined together
IN holy matrimony. Bless you, nv
children!
The examining magistrate will draw
up the contract and the executioner
VIII read the marriage service. Oh.
the delight of 1t! 1 suffer agonies-
but oh, the delight! What fine thing
Is hatred. when 1T makes death Joy!
am happy in dying. Marie is in
prison. Sauverand is weeping in the
condemned mans cell. The door
opens.
On horror! the men in black! They
walk up to the bed: Castor Sauye-
rand, your appeal is rejected. Courage,
Sc mani" Oh, the cold, dark morn
ing-the scaffold! It's your turn
Marie. your turn! Would you survive
your lover? Sauverand is dead: It's
your turn. See. here's rope for Won.
Or would you rather have poison? Die.
VIII you. you hussy! Die with your
veihs on fire-as / am doing. / who
hate you-hate you-hate you.
M. Desmalions ceased, amid the
silent establishment Of all those
present. He had great difficulty
IN reading the concluding lines.
the writing having become almost
wholly shapeless and illegibTe.
He said, in a low voice, as he
stared at the paper:
Hippolyte Fauville. The
signature is there. The scoundrel
found last remnant Of strength
to sign his name clearly. He
feared that doubt might be en-
tertained of his villainy. And in
deed how could any one have sus-
pected it,
And, looking at Don Luis, he
added
It needed, to solve the mys-
terry, a really exceptional power
OF insight to which we must all do
homage, to which I do homage.
AL the explanations which that.
mailman gave have been antici-
pated in the most accurate and be-
wildering fashion.
Don Luis bowed and, without
replying to the praise bestowed
upon him, said:
S You are right, Monsieur lie
Prefet; he was a mailman, and one
Of the most dangerous kind, the
lucid mailman who pursues an.
idea from which nothing viii
make him turn aside. He pur-
sued it with superhuman tenacity
and with all the resources Of his
fastidious mind enslaved BY the
laws Of mechanics
Z Another would have killed his
victims frankly and brutality. He
set his wits to work to kill at d
long date like an experimental
who leaves to time the duty Of